


Shoot First, Laugh Last

by larkspurs



Category: Saints Row
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Background Original Characters - Freeform, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Found Family, Gun Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Non-Binary Boss (Saints Row), Nudity, Other, POV Third Person Omniscient, Platonic Relationships, platonic intimacy, some heavy topics, the old west sucks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2020-01-09
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:41:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 48,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/larkspurs/pseuds/larkspurs
Summary: Outlaws on the run-- there's only so many places to go. There's only so many things you can do when the world is coming crashing down on you. Patience sits in the lungs like water, threatens to drown you. But, surviving the pinkertons, the deputies, the sheriffs, and the constables, is one big game, and a wanted poster can only follow you so far. The year is 1900, the dawn of a new century, and, darling, we aren't in Michigan anymore.(Saints Row Wild West AU!)





	1. Born Unto Trouble

**Author's Note:**

> i posted on my tunglr for folks to give me silly AU ideas for me to doodle, and @eulerami said "wild west AU lol" and I went wow! I'm going to take this way too far! and then I did. so thank you!

Through the great expanse of the old desert, the blazing sun cursed whatever exposed skin it might find, a muted cry that damned the sinner who dared tread forsaken land. 

His ragged breath broke the still of the air, a desperate scrape through his lungs that pulled his chest  _ up and down, up and down _ , with such drama and effort that it might've looked staged. 

_ "Hold still, Johnny, hold still. Not much longer now."  _ The Boss's voice was rough from the sand in their throat, but their whispers low and gentle with the care of a mother. They wiped his forehead free of sweat, and pressed a firm hand to his bleeding abdomen. 

His breath was too ragged to reply; he had not the will to form words. They pushed his black hair back from his face and whispered once again,  _ "We scored big, Johnny. Once we hit town, we're gonna get you the finest doctor around."  _

Dazed eyes blinded by pain glimpsed up at them, a brief acknowledgment, more than they'd hoped for. They smiled at him as the wagon pulled on. 

Through the wooden slats and tied up sides, the sun seeped through still, demanded to be felt. The air sweltered, what little moisture left in it surely boiling from the heat, and they felt they might suffocate if they weren’t careful. Still, the wheels rumbled and clacked and bounced over the uneven terrain, pulling at the best speed the horses could manage, and they pressed on. 

Normally, they'd be driving, but they couldn't tear themself from his side. 

They wet the washcloth once again from their canteen, pressed lukewarm water to his face and kept their hand on his wound. 

He closed his eyes, leaned into the minute relief of the cloth whether he intended to or not, and they chose to believe he would be okay. 

"Mr. Washington?" they knocked their elbow against the front of the wagon. "How's it lookin'?" 

"Clear, for now! I think we lost them somewhere past the river." 

They grinned. "That's what I like to hear! Keep it pushin', but don't hurt the horses!" 

All semblance of joy slipped away as they heard Johnny groan, the ache so present in his voice they might've felt his pain in their own guts. 

_ "Hey, hey, Johnny, it'll be okay,"  _ they dropped back into a whisper, steady hands on tight against his skin. "Don't falter on me now." 

The palm of their hand felt warm and slick, painted with the steady seep of his blood through his dust-coated old shirt. White fabric stained crimson, and they swore under their breath. They undid buttons, untucked his shirt, and peeled away fabric stuck to skin through the glue of sweat and blood--  _ the wound was bad, but not fatal.  _ He could make it. 

"C'mon, Johnny, you've been shot before; you can take this." They mumbled, shaken and distracted, as they tore his shirt into scraps, wound them tight around his middle. " _ Pierce _ !" Their voice cracked as they yelled, the wagon jumped off a stiff bump, sent them clattering and wavering faster down the road. 

" _ I know! _ " He yelled back, and they heard the crack of the reigns. "I already sent Carlos ahead! He'll loop back with the doctor any second now!" 

"You hear that Johnny?" they breathed, leaning into his face. "You're gonna be fine." 

Dazed eyes met their stare. "I'm fuckin' dyin'," he mumbled, lips barely able to close. 

"No you ain't, bastard. Just hurt. Not the same." 

"I'm bleedin' my fuckin' guts out." 

"You can talk, you can survive." They uncapped their canteen, pressed it to his lips, and tilted his head to force him to drink. "Don't get scared now." 

They watched him drink, watched his wound, watched the cracks of sunlight pouring through the thick wooden slats. 

A strange tension tugged at their chest, a building sense of disease that spoke of trouble on the horizon. Heat simmered off the sand, trembled in the air, where birds flew too high to be anything more than silhouettes. They heard the beat of the horses' hooves against tight-packed sand, could taste the dust buildup on their lips, and smell the blood on their hands and the gunpowder on their clothes. The beat of the summer pounded on the shakey wagon, but they grounded themself on the ribbed floor nonetheless, trusting in its rocky speed. 

They narrowed their eyes to stare through the slight crack in the back.  _ Dust on the horizon _ . 

"Johnny," they whispered, "you stay down." 

They stood, bent at the knees, cramped in the small space, before they slung their Remington rolling block to their front. Gripped in bloody hands, they put their trust into the steady old gun--  _ it's taken me this far.  _

They popped out the top half of the back door, a partially-open slat that let them balance their arms on the hinge of the door. It  _ clanged _ and  _ slammed  _ back against the wagon in the disruptful wind, but they held steady. Good eye peering through the scope, they saw just what they expected:  _ deputies _ . 

Three of them, all high and mighty on their palominos, pistols drawn and badges glittering in the bright sun. 

They adjusted their scope. Careful aim. Steady draw. Finger on the trigger.  _ Pop _ . 

The gun so fiercely wanted to jump from the force of the shot, but they held it strong. They watched the middle man's head snap back, not even a second to pause before he fell off the back of his horse, tumbled into the sand, where he might be left forever. His horse carried on without him, only caring for the sudden freedom on its shoulders. 

The bang of pistol shots echoed around the old wagon, arose the sand in frightened pillars of wind-shaken dust before them, but couldn't reach the speeding wagon. They heard Pierce cry, a short,  _ Hyah! _ and the crack of the reigns as the horses bolted from the shocking noise. 

_ Good enough to hunt us, but not good enough to use rifles on horseback? _

They reloaded. Aimed again. Careful and slow. Pathological.  _ Gentle _ . 

Another head between their reticule. Another nameless face, another self-entitled lawman with an overblown sense of justice. 

_ Bang _ . 

Another shattered skull left to bleach in the sun. Another horse free of human weight. 

The final deputy dug his spurs into the sides of his brawny young palomino, dove forward with great strides. Determined, hard,  _ eager to return with a wanted body hogtied on the back of his horse.  _

"Not today, sir," they murmured, turning their scope on him. "Get rich another way." 

_ Bang _ . They missed. Swore, bit their tongue. Reloaded. 

"Don't fuck up now," Johnny said, disturbed by his pained groans. 

They shot him a glance, snorted at him like an ornery old mare. "Shut up, deadman." 

A loose, breathless chuckle passed his lips. He looked sallow, but alive. 

They aimed again, steady through the scope, and watched their breathing.  _ Careful _ . The pistol was in range. Bullets whizzed closer to their speeding wheels. 

_ Steady, steady--  _

Bang. 

_ It was done.  _

They let out a deep sigh, a heave of their chest, and scouted out the horizon. It was empty again, clear, with only bodies in the sand to disrupt its blanket-like flow. 

"Clear!" they yelled, yanked up the door, and resealed the wagon. "How are we, Johnny?" 

He grunted, bemoaned his blood loss, and said in a shivering breath, "This ain't a  _ we _ problem." 

They shook their head. "Hold steady." 

The wagon rattled on in relative silence, only the creaks of the wood to accompany Johnny's ragged breath. They offered him their canteen, watched him drink, and sat cramped in the corner so he might lay a bit more comfortably. The two of them stayed that way for longer than they might've liked, watching the sun dip low in the west, until they heard Pierce yell from the front. 

"Carlos is back-- he's got the doctor with him!" 

The wagon lurched, jolted them to a hard stop, but they threw open the back of the wagon before the wheels were even done turning. Sunlight poured in like a dam breaks, but so did the sweet desert air and the relief of familiar figures on the approach. 

They hefted Johnny up, careful with him in their arms, and set him down on the ground below. They closed the wagon, locked it tight, and swung around to the side. 

In the distance, they saw a gray-coat Missouri Fox Trotter alongside an old mustang, and a great breath of relief escaped them. They yanked the bandana off their face and breathed. 

"You're gonna be okay, Johnny,  _ you're gonna be okay. _ " 

Without waiting for a reply, they pushed forward and swung around to the front of the wagon, where Pierce sat tired and knocking back as much of his canteen as he could drink. 

"Good driving," they said, with a tip of their hat. They leaned against the side, balanced on the seat, and peered up at him with hard, curious eyes. 

He recapped his canteen and dropped it to his side. "I know-- I told you I was a good driver." 

They grinned. "Cheeky bastard. Keep it up, maybe I'll keep you around." They slapped the wooden seat and climbed up next to him. "You take care of Johnny and the doctor. I'll play driver." 

Pierce gave a curt nod, dropped from the wagon, and stood in the sand waving out to Carlos as the Boss took over the driver's seat. 

They pulled their gambler hat down low over their eyes, stared firmly at the horses, and settled low and loose, so as not to draw attention to themself. They tuned out of the commotion around them, ignored Carlos's confused glance as he pulled up next to them, and simply sat, sizzled in the heat. The desert was not quiet, yet it was-- so thick was the heat that its blaze seemed audible, joined by the occasional skitter of a critter or the cry of a bird. They closed their eyes and tried not to hear anything but the wind and birds, imagined a moment where it was only them and the hot desert sand, so better to ignore Johnny's hisses and groans as a bullet was extracted from his guts. 

Suddenly there was Carlos, balanced on the ribs of the forebed, still breathing heavy from his ride. 

" _ Boss _ ," he whispered, " _ Why are you up here _ ?" 

They slowly, silently, shifted only their eyes to respond to him. " _ I'm most likely to be recognized, Carlos _ ," they said, their whisper a low hiss. " _ Pretend I'm just your driver. Gat got shot in a hunting accident. _ " 

A quick understanding dawned on the young man's face, and he nodded. " _ Right, Boss. You got it _ ." He hopped down, skittered across the sand to the back of the wagon, where the doctor treated him as a makeshift assistant. 

The Boss leaned back against the seat irons, closed their eyes and pulled the collar of their shirt tighter around their face. Their fingers twitched, desperate to move, desperate to be at the front of every incident, but they stayed. 

"We were out hunting. Johnny got shot; the train station nearby didn't have any doctor, so we hired a wagon and rode out here." They heard Carlos lie. The kid was getting good-- confident. 

They sat in the sun for what might've been hours; but, they neglected to check the silver pocket watch tucked into their vest. Instead, they watched the horses, occasionally hopped down to offer them water, and then returned to their seat and waited. 

They could hear the doctor, Johnny, Pierce and Carlos, but they chose to focus on the billowing winds and the cry of a distant hawk. They imagined the town that must be just past the horizon, imagined a hotel bed and a fresh bath, felt their skin burn under the sand that flayed them, but they held steady. 

Luxuries would come later. 

The sun shifted across the sky and shadows fell sharper with each passing minute, until the doctor was telling Johnny to rest and reapply ointment every so often, Pierce was paying him, and he was mounting his horse and trotting off back to town. Pierce reappeared at their side, hefted himself into the seat, and balanced his rifle across his knees. 

“Gat’s stable,” he said, “Good to make it back to camp.” 

They nodded, whipped the reigns, and bounced with the wagon as it returned down its sordid path.

Carlos pulled up beside them, steady on his horse’s back. Young but experienced, he rode with the ease and balance of a man much older than himself, betrayed only by the youthful interest in his eyes as he stared up at them and guided the reigns with only one hand. “Do you think we had him fooled, Boss?” 

They did not glance down at him, but shook their head. “Reckon he’s fixed enough bullet holes to know a hunting accident when he sees one. The key ain’t always trickin’-- sometimes it’s just a way of sayin’ you aren’t a threat, and they’ll help out.” 

Carlos looked forward, where the dust spiraled from the doctor’s trail back to town. “I always figured doctors wouldn’t help a buncha bandits.” 

“Hard-pressed for cash, maybe,” they shrugged. "There's a lot that people will ignore out here, if persuaded that it's in their interest not to notice it." 

He did not respond, but his face knitted together in a curious hesitation. Maybe he thought of someone who the same leniency had not been given, or wondered about the flexibility of personal ethics under the stress of such trying times. 

“Carlos,” they interjected, “Ride ahead. Tell the others.” 

He looked almost hurt. They pulled the reins to turn away from town, guiding their horses into the sunset. He followed their movement, a small snap of the wrist to urge his trotter forward. "We aren't going to town?" 

"Later. I want Johnny in his tent. Let the girls know we're comin'. Get everything packed." 

He deflated in the shoulders, but gave a nod and cracked the reigns again. " _ Yah, Nena, ¡ándale! _ "

They watched him ride.  _ Nena _ . Such a sentimental name for a horse. He was a sweet kid. 

"I don't mind drivin' if you wanna hop in back, Washington." 

"With Gat? Nah, Boss, thank you, but I'm fine out here. Wagon probably smells like death by now." 

They snorted and shook their head. "Dramatics-- he's fine, isn't he?" 

"Well enough. Doctor didn't even seem phased." 

They hummed, watched the horizon. "It's nasty living out here," they said. "You and me know that." 

"You and I are nasty people." 

They nodded. 

"The bullet missed everything vital," he continued. "My guess is the sickness came from blood loss, the way that fool kept runnin' with iron in his guts, so he'll be up in a few days." 

"Thank you, doctor," they grinned. "How much he charge?" 

"10 dollars." 

"Mark it down when we get back." 

They carried on their ride for much longer still, off the beaten, dusty roads into open country. They followed the path of the setting sun, until the sky blazed violent red and faded into a deep, tender blue. Already, the moon and stars began to coat the sky with dancing lights, and the world around them roused itself awake.

They heard coyotes yowl in the distance, their strange, whining cries that broke the silence like glass, noted the occasional rodent darting past their wheels, listened for the rattle of snakes or the growl of a cougar. Thankful to hear neither, they lit the wagon's lanterns and carried on. 

"It’s beautiful out here," Pierce mumbled. He let his carbine rest in his lap, muzzle pointed out over the sea of dust, and leaned back to breathe in the sharp, cooling air. "More stars than the city." 

They barely affirmed, staring stiffly out over uneven terrain. "It’s strange, to see a place with no water.”

“Oh, there’s water," He pulled a cigarette pack out of his jacket and offered them a smoke. They accepted, and leaned over for him to light it. His own fresh cigarette between his lips, he took a drag and blew hot, gray smoke into the settling night air. "You just can’t see it.”

A small, breathy laugh escaped them as desert turned to sparse, short grass, and rocky roads twisting up into the hills. In the dirt, they saw hoofprints, and trusted it was Carlos's mare. "There’s a lot I can’t see.” 

Suddenly they stopped. They yanked tight on the reigns, held still, cigarette drooping between their lips. 

The night was still. Frozen. Alive, but quiet. 

"Did you hear…?" they whispered, ears perked. 

Pierce gripped his gun, finger steady on the trigger. "No," he returned, just as quiet. 

Crickets filled the air. They stood stiff, careful,  _ alert _ . 

After a moment, they slipped down off the seat, boots thumping onto the dry dirt. "I'm gonna check on Johnny," they said, slipping around the back. 

They opened the wagon and saw Johnny propped against the side, head nodding. 

They gave a low whistle. "Gat, are you okay?" 

His eyes barely glimpsed open. He fluttered between conscious and not, but gave them a low, "Yeah," before closing his eyes once more and sinking back down. "Let's just go." 

They frowned, but nodded their head and closed him back in. At the click of the wagon latch, they  _ swore  _ they heard something in the distance-- 

The pop of a gun, maybe, but it was too far off to tell. Nonetheless, they swung around to stare into the inky blackness of the receding desert. 

It was too dark to see. The lanterns of the wagon only reached so far, and the distance was as unfathomable as the bottom of the ocean. 

They felt a shiver run down their back. They didn't like this, but they returned to the driver's seat, whipped the reigns, and carried on. 

"Keep your eyes open," they murmured to Pierce as they rode. "I think something's out there." 

In time, the wagon disappeared into the mountain trails, obscured by skyward-blazing trees and the rocky curves of the road. There was comfort in the looping nonsense of the rising woods, a certainty that they couldn't be followed. This sense was only heightened as the night trudged on, painting the landscape black and impenetrable beyond the few feet of the lanterns' glow. They took it slow, and the moon was high in the sky when they broke from the path and dove back down into the valley, where they twisted through trees and brush into a clearing by the lake, right into their modest camp.

Shaundi, Carlos, and Aisha sat quietly by the fire, only to leap to their feet as the wagon pulled up across from the tents. 

“Johnny?” Aisha started, before the others could even make their move. Her face was pulled tight, contorted, lined with frustration and borderline annoyance to mask genuine concern. Before they could speak, she was throwing open the wagon door, climbing in and seeing for herself.

"How's Gat?" Shaundi made her way to the side of the wagon instead, twisting around their packed bags and stacked crates of food, weapons, and ammo, her rough voice even, though tinged with an uncharacteristic wariness. "Carlos told me everything." 

"He's alive," Pierce said, dropping from the seat. He turned on his heel to the wagon back, setting the doors down properly as Aisha stirred Johnny from his slumber.

"Don't worry too much; he's been through worse." The Boss climbed in, gently touched Aisha’s shoulder in reassurance, and scooped Johnny up.

As they clambered out of the old wagon holding Johnny in their arms, he groaned, then sighed, "Takes more than a gutshot to kill me." 

Shaundi laughed, eased by his bravado. "I like that positivity." 

"Help Washington unpack, can you?" Boss asked, leading Johnny to the tents with Aisha close behind. "I'll be there in a minute." 

Shaundi nodded, scrambled into the wagon, and soon the three of them together had figured out an unloading system. There wasn't much in the wagon-- 532 dollars, originally, now 522, some spare guns, and some miscellaneous tools, but it had to be emptied. 

"How are you feeling, Johnny?" They mumbled the words as they helped him settle down onto his bed roll, as if they didn't want the others to hear. 

He leaned back, head on a tight pack of soft wool, closed his eyes and breathed in deep. "Like shit, Boss. Like shit."

They gave a small laugh and sat on the ground beside him, offering Aisha their hand as she settled down next to them. "You'll live. Tomorrow's easy. We'll set you up on the wagon, head out west for a ways, find a new place to camp." 

“I can’t  _ believe  _ you got yourself shot again,” Aisha sighed, her irritation cut by the gentle look on her face. “What happened?” 

Johnny was silent for a moment, before shrugging loosely. “I forgot to get behind cover.” A smile graced his lips, for even in his weakest moments, he could not resist the urge to be an ass. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were worried, baby.” 

Aisha laughed, gripped his hand and shook her head at him. Her fingers brushed over his exposed chest, and his smile turned a little more genuine. "You're impossible. You're stayin' in my wagon tomorrow." 

“I’m always in your wagon, baby.” 

She laughed at his stupid comment, the anxiety easing off her shoulders with each jive he made. With gentler hands, she pulled the blankets of their shared mat over him. “Hsin-hung, you think we’ll make it without a scratch tomorrow?” 

"I do." The Boss spoke confidently, quietly, as if there were no other possibilities. "I know our numbers are frighteningly small right now, but we can travel easy with just the six of us. We'll make it." 

"Out to Colorado?" 

They nodded. 

Johnny sighed. “I’m tired, Boss.” 

They reached for his hand, gave a small squeeze. “You’ve stuck with me this far, Johnny. We can make it a little longer.” 

He laughed, closed his eyes once more. “As if I’d leave your ass behind now.” 

The sides of the tent shook in the wind as they rose, their head bumping against the top. “We’ll talk more, later. See you two in the morning.” 

“See you in the morning,” Aisha returned, gripping their hand as they stood and smiling as she released them. “Thank you for bringing this fool home.” 

They tipped their hat to her, a small smile their response. 

Another stiff breeze greeted their exit. Johnny barely waved them off, and they wondered how only a few hours of travel and the time of day could have such a heavy impact on the weather. They tied the flap shut, rolled their stiff shoulders out, and collapsed next to the fire. 

Pierce, Shaundi, and Carlos had already finished packing. There wasn’t much to pack-- between the six of them, traveling endlessly, they could only own so much. They sat around the campfire quietly, stoking burning logs and soaking in the smoke. 

“Is Johnny okay?” Carlos asked, glancing up to face them. The fire caught his brown eyes in a glow, lighting up his features as if he were the sun itself. The orange bouncing off his sun-kissed cheeks provided a sharp contrast to the cool blackness of the stream and the trees around them; indeed, if they unfocused their eyes he looked to be the only thing around for miles. 

“He’ll be fine,” they said. They took off their hat and dropped it onto the ground next to them. Their long hair was damp with sweat, stuck to their forehead and the sides of their face. They felt the dust and sand still clinging to their skin, and knew they smelled of death and smoke. “Gat’s been shot plenty of times. This isn’t any different.” 

“The heist was a success,” Pierce interjected. “With the cash we got, we can get him into a hotel with a doctor to check up on him. I wouldn’t even worry.” 

Shaundi grinned at him. “Don’t worry, Carlos-- next job it’s your turn to stay home and guard the camp. I’ll keep Johnny safe.” 

Carlos was wrought with indignation, but Boss and Pierce laughed. “Don’t stress so much, Carlos,” The Boss’s voice broke the teasing, in their gentlest tone that always surprised the others with its parental nature. “You get used to these kinds of things." 

He scratched at his face, staring down into the fire. "I don't know if that's a good thing." 

"Hey, everything's subjective." Pierce stood, stretched and popped his back, before turning away to the tarp he slept under. "I don't know what the rest of y'all are doin', but I'm tired." 

Shaundi huffed, clearly the least exhausted of them all, but stood and set her sights on her hammock. "See you in the morning, I guess. G'night." 

Carlos glanced to the Boss, who still sat in the dirt. They glanced back at him. 

"Don't stress yourself out; I mean it." They stood, dropped a flat palm on top of his head, and wrung his hat around like they were juicing an orange. They grinned at his reaction, laughed, and picked their own hat up off the ground. "I know it's hard, kid. You're young. No one takes you seriously." 

" _ Thanks _ ," he frowned. 

"It's the truth. I know it 'cause I lived it. I was 17 when I joined Julius." 

His annoyance shifted into curiosity. He stood, brushing the dust off his shirt, and knit his brow as he tried to read the Boss's quiet face. "Héctor told me about him, in letters. Told me about you, too." 

"I remember. You told me. I'm sure your brother was a good guy." 

"Are we-- are we ever gonna be like Julius's gang was? Héctor always said it was massive, too many guys to keep track of." 

"Not just guys. Gals, too. It was huge. There were so many of us ready to follow him to war." They looked up at the stars, silent for a moment, then shook their head. "I don't know, Carlos. I'm not Julius. I don't know what he wanted, anymore." 

Carlos was quiet. His calloused fingers toyed with the worn fabric of his old hat, careful but unconcerned. "Well-- good night, Boss. I'll see you in the morning." 

They nodded. "Good night, Carlos." 

He retreated into the trailer of the wagon, where a stiff old bedroll awaited him. They watched, though they weren't sure what they waited for, and then turned to snuff out the fire. As they did, they caught Pierce's eyes; he watched them as he settled back on his bedroll, favorite rifle lain carefully beside him and only a lantern to illuminate his night. They stood, stopped at the side of his tarp, and said, "Good night, Mr. Washington." 

"Good night, Boss." 

They smiled. 

They had their own tent, but they kept it a ways separate from the main camp-- the ground ascended just a bit, just enough that up there they could watch over the camp and supplies, and see into the surrounding trees and the shore of the river. They propped their gun against the wall of the open-faced tent, undid their long braid, shed their jacket, boots, socks, and overshirt, before they heard the snap of a twig in the woods behind them. 

They perked their ears, listened to the careful footsteps, hand ever so slowly reaching for their gun, before they heard it-- 

_ "Hsin-hung?"  _

They closed their eyes. A sigh escaped them, but their hand retreated and they stood. They turned around the corner of their tent, pressing back into the darkness of the woods. They hissed, a hushed complaint, "You have to show up  _ now _ ?" 

"Christ, it's not like I had much of a say in it." 

"Shut up, shut up, c'mon--" they grabbed Troy by the collar of his jacket, took long strides deeper into the woods, away from camp, away from anyone who might overhear them. It wasn't until they could barely see their own tent that they stopped, released his collar, and took a deep breath. 

"No one saw me come here, okay? I told them I was off to see about a runaway bride; they didn't even  _ try  _ to follow me." 

“Where you that noise I heard earlier?” 

“Huh? I dunno-- probably.”

“Sounded like a gunshot.” 

“Oh, yeah-- I had to shoot a coyote. I think it had rabies. It was fuckin’ weird. Took its pelt, though; pretty nice.” 

" _ Troy--  _ Why did you come here?" 

He snorted, as if they should know. "You only got yourself to blame for that." 

They shook their head, face aimed down at the ground, and let their hair curtain around them. "You shouldn't-- you shouldn't do this." 

They could practically hear him deflate in the sigh he gave, but he continued anyway, "You think I don't  _ know _ ? Listen, I'll keep it brief. You asked me for the truth, and I brought it." He procured a bundle of envelopes from his pack, tied together with string. "It was a pain in the ass finding all these, but here you got it." 

They stared cautiously at the package, gauging it slowly, before they gently took it from his hand. They held it carefully, as if worried it might shatter. "What are these?" 

"Correspondence between Julius and Sheriff Monroe, Mayor Hughes and the Pinkertons, and-- well, between Julius, Dex, and me. They're your answers." 

They straightened up, eyes widened, and turned the envelopes over and over in their hands. "Troy--" 

" _ Don't-- _ Don't thank me. It'll make me feel weird." 

They snorted. "Wasn't gonna. I was gonna remind you I don't know how to read." 

His mouth fell open. " _ Shit _ . I thought-- Shit, I thought  _ Dex-- _ " 

"Tried to.” They cut him off as they rifled through the letters, looking as though they were trying to decipher something. “Didn’t try very hard.” They looked back to Troy. “I’m a bad student.” 

He barely laughed, an empty scoff, and shook his head. “You’re killin’ me. Thought I was doing a good deed.” 

“Nothing’s a good deed when it comes to me.” 

He took the letters back, gesturing to the one on top. “Summons to the Sheriff’s house,” he said, holding it up for them. “It all starts here. Can’t any of your boys read? I know Johnny can, but that doesn’t mean he will.” 

“Pierce, Aisha, and Carlos can.” 

“Get one of them to read it. Whichever you trust more, I guess.” 

Their eyes scanned up slowly, from the envelopes in his hands back to his face. He met their gaze, an uncomfortable stare that reminded him painfully of the  _ old days _ . 

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” 

They sighed, a deep heave in their shoulders, before they turned, silently, and began to walk towards the river. He watched them disappear past the trees, their giantesque figure melding into the shadows of the night. He hesitated for only a moment, before he pocketed the envelopes and followed after them. 

He shook his head.  _ “Always were the eccentric one,”  _ he sighed. 

The river was only a few steps away. They stood with their feet in the water, staring out across the gentle passage, into the uncertain distance. Troy came up behind them, preferring to stay on dry land. He stared over the horizon and tried to see what they saw: sparse trees joining together to obscure a passage into the mountains, far beyond the scope of what the moon could illuminate.  _ Great sprouts of green, shifting into blackness, dotted by white stars.  _ There were mountains beyond those trees, and then what? Valleys, rivers, lakes, people, animals, life, love, death, misery, pain, happiness,  _ the world _ . They could be seeing any of that, or maybe none of it. 

"It's not anything like Michigan, is it?" they said. 

"No," he agreed, remembering the trading post of a city they'd met in. "I mean, it's beautiful out here, but what's that got to do with--" 

"Nothing," they answered before he could finish the question. "Because we aren't in Michigan anymore." 

The tension in his shoulders dropped. "Ah, I get it. You and your dramatics." He approached the water, just enough to see their profile. They smiled. Their eyes were locked on the sky, and once again he couldn't read them.

"Do you ever wonder what it would be like if things were different?" 

He frowned. "Course I do." 

They stuffed their hands in their pockets and swayed in the breeze. Troy glanced up at them, and then back down to the river. "I'm going to Colorado, Troy. Moving on. Leaving this behind. We're gonna get whatever money we can, and then I'm gonna buy us some land, and you're never gonna hear from me again." They turned. "Unless you plan on visiting like a normal person." 

"You mean somethin' other than sneaking up to your tent in the middle of the night?" He shook his head, reached into his back pocket, and produced a packet of cigarettes. They placed their hand out, expectantly, and he sacrificed one to them, before taking his own. "You know Johnny doesn't wanna see me." 

"But I do." 

His cigarette still unlit, he almost dropped it into the water. He stared up at them, painfully dumbstruck by such a simple phrase. 

"We used to be friends." 

Their words were packed with a melancholy neither of them could begin to describe. A nostalgic longing for how things used to be, and how they would never be again, was all that lay behind their vulnerability. 

"Well-- Yeah, I mean-- I know that." 

They scratched at their face, darted their eyes to the side, and continued with a heavy sigh. "I don't-- I don't  _ really  _ blame you for what happened. I hate you for lying, but, really--" they kicked their foot out, splashing him with the cold river water. "We were all lying to each other, one way or another." 

He didn't know what to do. He felt he should  _ do  _ something, but he didn't know what. His arms felt heavy and awkward as they hung uselessly at his sides. He decided to light both their cigarettes. "Hsin-hung, I--" 

"Don't thank me," they teased, mimicking his accent, "It'll only make me feel weird." 

He snorted. "Wasn't going to." 

They stared at him. "I'm gonna make it to Colorado." 

"You know I can't help you all the way out there. I won’t be able to send only the shittiest deputies after you rob a bank." 

"I don't expect you to. I don’t plan to." 

"The pinkertons still want your head, kid." 

"I know." 

"I can't stop them." 

"I  _ know _ ." 

He closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Never thought I’d see you tryna live an honest life." 

"You could always come with us." 

"Enh, Johnny'd kill me before the pinkertons do. I've already got a bad reputation; I think I should stay away from cliff diving." 

They laughed, reached out and gripped his shoulder. They opened their mouth to say something, stopped, and then turned back around to face the river. 

Troy took the envelopes from his jacket once more and pushed them into their hands. "I really think you should take these." 

They stared at the stack, paused, before sitting down on the dry shore and handing the top one to Troy. "Read it to me?" They asked. 

He relented. He sighed as his aching body settled on the stiff ground next to them. He took a long drag of his cigarette before unfolding the letter and angling it so the parchment caught the light of the pale moon. 

"To the known leader of the self-proclaimed  _ Saints _ , Julius Little," he read, cigarette balanced in the corner of his lips, "The good sheriff Monroe extends this invitation. You are in no danger. Please come alone." 

They leaned into his side, peering over his shoulder at the letter. They seemed to be trying to track where he was, match his speech to the writing, but their focus was on his voice. They listened attentively as he ran through the first three letters, proof of all the things they hadn't seen before. By the end of the fourth letter, they had drifted away to stare solemnly at the sandy dirt. He noticed, as he read the closer, " _ Hsin-hung is the only one who could've taken the fall and lived _ ," that he could no longer feel the heat of their chest pressed into his shoulder, and turned to look them over. 

"Are you okay, kid?"

They did not respond. 

He retied the stack and placed it in their lap. "Go through the rest later." 

They, again, did not respond. 

For a good time, they sat on the shore like that, watching the river drift by. It was quiet, but the beat of the river was steady, and its song filled their night. Suddenly, they collapsed onto his side, head on his shoulder, after the initial shock of it, he realized he was receiving a hug. 

They pulled away as quickly as they fell into it, suddenly standing on their feet as if nothing had happened. They towered over him, a statue painted in heavy shadow, seven feet two inches of indecipherability. He was undaunted by their stature, too familiar with the person to be shocked by the size anymore. 

"I should go," he said. 

They nodded. They clutched the envelopes in one hand and watched him stand. "I hope we never have to fight," they said. 

He gave an empty laugh, shook his head, and began the retreat back to his tethered stallion. They watched him go, until he was swallowed by the trees, and then returned to their tent. 


	2. Interlude 1

_ Stilwater, Michigan, 1895.  _

The city was a portside mess-- nothing more than shack houses hidden behind the splendor of a flourishing trading post. The boats that docked there caught enough fish to feed a city, but most of them would never see the bulk of those splendid hauls. They were dried, salted, and shipped far away, while the workers were left to rot in the muggy lake air. 

They watched the elite of the developing city from the steps of a humble chapel. It was so freshly built, and yet so readily abandoned by all but its pastor. 

Julius Little, the only man in the city they could stand to admire anymore, stood on his chapel steps with a somber confidence. He was a man ready for anything, even as the humid, oppressive air threatened to swallow his congregation whole. 

“The century's comin’ to an end, son,” he said, eyes locked on the muddy street. Poor folk with fleur-de-lises hand-stitched into their jackets nodded at Julius as they walked by. Every day, more and more disparaged workers turned to his leadership as they lost their homes, their loves, or their health, to exploitative labor. 

What Julius said was true. Five years from now, the 1800s would be over.  _ A whole new century.  _ They were only 17 years old, and already the world was on the precipice of something that felt massive. But there they sat, on the steps of a church, and they weren’t doing much of anything. 

“Every day’s new change. A new factory gets built, a new street gets paved, another man loses his home.” 

They gave a slow nod of their head. The air smelled like fish and the broken backs of the unfortunate. They wondered what this place looked like before it was whatever  _ this  _ was. 

“Neither of us asked to be here, but it’s what we got.” His rough hand gripped their shoulder and squeezed. Julius was a deceptively strong man, for his rather thin build, but there was still a certain comfort in his touch: a promise of something great, a glimpse of community and shelter against a world that wants to destroy you. “Every day, we make sacrifices for somebody else. And every day, we have a little less to give. I know I’ve asked a lot of you, son, but you always were a natural at this.” 

They thought of the banks they’d cleaned out, the stacks of cash once hoarded by wealthy industrialists now hidden in the depths of the chapel. They thought of the deputies they’d shot down, the trains they’d halted, the fresh mansions they’d burned back down to the ground. They thought of their late mother, and the stories she’d once spun about living in the mountains of Taiwan.  _ How different it was over there.  _ They nodded to Julius, but their eyes stayed on the mud. Their boots were dirty. They rubbed the muck and horseshit off on the steps of the church. Julius told them to stop that. 

An ostentatious wagon rolled by, and they glared. As it passed, delicate and unscarred hands yanked the window curtains shut. 

“Wealth deteriorates the soul, son.  _ Then he said to them, “Watch out! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; a man's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions. _ ” 

They glanced up at Julius, curious and a bit confused. 

“Luke, 12:15,” he clarified. "A greedy man is eager to get rich and is unaware that poverty awaits him.” 

They nodded. They’d never gone to church before they’d met Julius. They didn’t care for it much. They mostly sat in the back of the chapel and thought-- thought about life, the future, the past, thought about Julius and Dex and Troy and Johnny and Lin. They didn’t pay much attention to the sermons. 

“Speaking of the bible, you picked a good name--  _ Xavier _ . Strong. Not very popular up here, but I always liked it.” 

They shrugged. It was just an alias to them-- one they'd used since they'd joined the Saints. It was something to keep the constable away from their actual identity. He'd never mentioned it before. They wondered why now. 

“It’s good to pick an alias you like. You might get stuck with it.” 

A small nod of the head, a shrug. They didn't feel like talking much anymore. Julius said their silence was good. Called it a display of integrity, once. They were silent because they didn't have anything to say.

Julius was quiet for a moment. It was often they shared conversations like this, where Julius spoke to them and knew they listened even if they didn't reply. It was more often that Julius spoke to them through one of his lieutenants, sending Dex or Johnny to tell them their orders, but recently he'd closed their distance. They saw his face more, like they had when they first met, and often felt his strong hand on their shoulder. For the first time, though, he sat down next to them. 

"No one's done more for the Saints than you have, you know that?" 

They turned to face him, lips parted in surprise. He was at eye level to them. This, somehow, felt like the first time they hadn't been looking  _ up _ at him. 

"You're proud, son. Very proud. Even still, as things get darker." 

Their face knit together in confusion. They didn't understand what he meant.  _ Things were going great.  _

He didn't elaborate. 


	3. The Shootist

In the morning they washed themself in the river, soaked their hip-length hair in the frigid water and washed it with a bar of soap. They soaked their clothes, hung them from a tent string, beat the dust off them, and left them outside to dry. 

Per usual, they'd awoken before dawn, many hours before the rest of the camp would stir. They sat in their tent, wrapped in a blanket, meticulously cleaning their rolling block rifle. 

They hummed to themself as they worked, their damp hair clung to their bare shoulders and back, and for the first time in a long time, they felt a minimal peace. 

They had a plan, a goal in mind to carry them through. Something tangible, stronger than _ pure survival _ . They were going to _ build _something. 

They set their rifle down and closed their eyes. 

_ And you will feel secure, because there is hope; you will look around and take your rest in security. _

They hated how well they remembered Julius's last sermon. They hated how they heard his voice still resounding from that pulpit. They still saw the milky sunlight streaming through dirty windows, remembered how his hands cut the air with every point. Why it had stuck with them, they didn't know. It was the first time they'd ever even _ paid attention _, and yet his hypocritical words bounced around in the back of their skull as if demanding to be scrutinized and reconsidered. 

This was their punishment for trusting a pastor. 

"Boss?" 

Their eyes shot to the tent entrance. Pierce's silhouette stood before them, hesitant to pull back the flap. 

They pulled their blanket up to their chest and opened their tent. The rush of pale-blue light flooded in, and they felt awash with the dawn. “Morning, Washington.”

He was already cleaned and dressed for the day, looking bright in a yellow button-down. They admired the silver necklace he wore around his neck, but did not mention it. "Morning, Boss.” 

“Everything alright?” 

“Packing for the ride today-- we need to hit a town. We’re low on food and medicine, and I don’t know about you, but I don’t like the idea of starving to death in the middle of Nowhere, Texas.” 

“Of course.” 

“So, uh-- just figured I’d ask you.” 

They hesitated, an insatiable curiosity needling in the back of their mind. “Hey, can you do something for me?” 

He raised his eyebrows, tilted his head to the side, and almost laughed. “Is it something related to you sitting there naked?” 

They snorted at him, rolled their eyes and ushered him inside. “Close the tent. I need a favor.” 

“Oh, damn, I didn’t know you felt that way about me, Boss. I’m flattered.” He chided them, but did as they asked, tying the flap closed and sitting down across from them. He stretched out on the sheepskin mat, legs crossing over theirs in the small space. 

“Clearly. I just can’t resist a man with an ego.” They spoke plainly, digging through their personal satchel as they spoke. They produced the stack of letters Troy had given them, carefully storing the first four away. They handed Pierce the stack, only six letters left, and asked, “Can you read these to me?” 

Pierce looked a bit surprised. He turned the letters over in his hands, as if confused. “Are you--” 

“Yeah,” they said, wrapping themself tighter in their blanket. “I’m completely illiterate. Johnny and Aisha usually read for me.” 

He blinked. “So, why me this time?” 

“Well--” they paused, thought about it, and shrugged, “I don’t think Johnny would like to read this. I’d rather hear it myself first, and then tell him, in a way that won’t make him wanna go man-hunting.” 

Pierce snorted, opening the first letter. “Sensitive material, huh? Where’d you get this stuff?” 

“An old friend. Just read it.” 

"Troy," he began, folding the paper back in his hands, "I know you're working for the Pinkertons. I know you're a deputy from New York, and I know what you're here to do. All I'm saying is this: Leave me out of it. I got offered a job, and I'm out." He paused, stared at the letter, and then continued with hesitation, "Xavier, Hsin-hung, whichever name they’re calling him now, he ain't dead. Lost an eye, but he's alive. Julius lied. Consider that information my gift to you; in exchange, leave me out of it when the constable asks you to start pointing to people." 

They nodded, slowly, quiet but calm. Eventually, they spoke, "That's... about what I expected." 

He looked up to them with an uncomfortable amount of expectation in his eyes. "Are you gonna explain all this to me?" 

"Another time. Keep reading." 

He pulled a face, but continued. “I’m not telling you where I work, but all you need to know is it’s honest enough. Or, maybe, criminal in the legally and socially acceptable manner. That should be hint enough for you. One last piece of advice: don’t look for me. Signed, D. Jackson.” 

They leaned back, their hair catching on the threaded fabric of the tent. They did not meet Pierce’s eyes, even as he searched for them, and fumbled with all the possible responses fleeing from their tongue. “It’s funny,” they settled on, “hearing Dex’s words in your voice.” 

Pierce had a way of looking at them that made them feel transparent. Something in his eyes screamed, “your glibness doesn’t fool me,” and he always knew when there was more than they let on. “And nothin’ else about this bothers you?” 

They gave him an empty smile. “Decline to comment.” 

He laughed, already too used to their nature after only a few months with them. “Should I keep reading?” 

“No.” They took the letters from his hands and returned them to their satchel, tying it shut with a firm knot. "Thank you, though. I'll need more help later." 

He shook his head. "Anytime, I guess. You know I hate it when you're all cagey like this, though." 

They grinned at him. "You'll get used to it." 

Pierce returned their smile, sat up and began to undo the tent flap, climbed half-way out, then froze. 

The expression on his face sent a cold chill down their back. Something was wrong. Something was _ bad _. Their mind raced through all the possibilities, anything that could possibly be off; their hand shot out and snatched their rifle before they even realized they were moving. 

"_ What is it _?" they hissed, apprehension a cold hand on their heart. 

He moved, very, _ very _ slowly, reaching for the revolver at his hip. " _ There's someone in the camp _ ," he whispered. " _ Some cracker. No uniform. _" 

For a split second they wondered if it was Troy, but _ no _, he wasn't stupid. 

"_ In the camp, or near it? _" 

"_ Near it. He's got his gun drawn. _" 

They slinked into his side, pushing their head out next to his shoulder. Past the trees and past the wagon, a man in a black hat was crouched in the brush, pushing closer and closer to Aisha and Johnny's tent. 

They lay down on their stomach, drew their rifle, and pulled the scope to their right eye. The man looked young, but ugly and hard. Probably in his late 20s, probably a wannabe gunslinger, probably a nasty, nasty man. They didn't recognize him, but he reeked of Texas backwoods, and they had to assume he was one of the local boys from a nearby town. Probably not attached to Troy in any way, definitely not a deputy or Pinkerton. So how did he… 

_ The Doctor. _

The Doctor went home to his little town and talked about some strange faces, struck some curiosity, and got them _ followed. _He took his pay and snitched. 

"_ Makeshift bounty hunter _," they mumbled. 

They watched for a moment longer. He was distracted by his own feet, careful not to snap any twigs, and they almost wanted to roll their eyes. He had a pistol in his hand, but the damn thing was rusted to hell and back. 

"_ Whaddya say, Washington? Kill him, or scare him off _?" 

They didn't have to see his face to know he was grinning. "_ Scare him first. If he puts up a fight, I'll put him down _." 

They snorted. "_ You're too nice _." A knock of the barrel down, a snap of the trigger-- a bullet splicing the dirt open at his feet. He leapt back, staggered, stumbled, and almost fell. They hooted and laughed, shot another at his feet, and watched him bolt into the woods. 

They laughed, and Pierce laughed with them, leaning back into the tent to sit down. "Damn, I guess I don't get a turn, then! Fuckin' milksop." 

They tossed their head back and shook it. "I hate it here!" They laughed. "I fucking hate it here!" They sat back in their tent, rested their gun against their side, and their shoulders shook from their laughter. "Ah hell, I can't wait to leave! Never see another trash gunslinger again!" 

"What," he scoffed, "you think there's no trash in Colorado?" 

They leaned forward, planting their hands on either side of him and staring into his face. “I don’t care,” they said. “We’re not gonna see ‘em. I’m gonna buy us some land, you know? I’ve been saving up for it. The portion of our takes that goes straight into camp? I halve that and keep one half for a couple acres. Supplement it with half of my personal portion. We’re gonna build a house, somethin’ big enough for all of us, and we’re gonna get comfortable! We’ll shoot down any agent or bounty hunter that drifts too close, hide the bodies. Then after a while living low and quiet like that, the world’ll forget us. We can live however we want.” 

Pierce stared at them, confounded, a bit surprised, before mumbling, “Damn.” 

They grinned at him. “I’ve got it all planned out, Washington. I told you the day you joined up: I’m gonna get us the lives we deserve.” 

He relaxed, smiled, and met their eyes. “I don’t know why I believe you.” 

“Cause I’m your boss,” they stood, bending at the hips in the short tent. “Go wake the others, huh-- oh, _ fuck _.” Their heart plummeted, as they stood halfway out the tent flap and noticed Shaundi’s hammock, set up a few feet behind where the man had been standing, sitting so very, very empty. They launched forward and kicked their way, barefoot, through the dewy grass. 

“_ Shaundi! _” They yelled, their voice a harsh bark into the cool morning air. Their breath misted and floated away from them, a cry blown away on a breeze. Aisha was climbing out of her tent, still in a nightgown and hair still wrapped in cloth. She looked tired, but aware. 

“Hsin-hung,” she spoke, “what was that gunshot? Where’s Shaundi?” 

“I don’t know,” they said. Pierce came up beside them, clutching both their guns in each hand, and tossed them their rifle. “Well, fuck-- I know what the shots were. They found our camp-- or, one guy did. I don’t know where-- _ Shaundi! _ ” They shouted again, whirling on their heel. The soft dirt of the riverside camp slipped under them, and they practically slid into the brush. Their hair was still wet, clutched to their skin, clinging to their face and neck and it suddenly felt so _ tight _ , like they were suffocating under the pressure of each water droplet. " _ Shaundi _!" 

“_ Boss! _” The shout was from behind them. The tension in their shoulders collapsed, replaced by a self-inflicted exasperation. 

Shaundi stood behind them, hair soaking wet, already in her blouse and saddle pants. In her arms she clutched a steel tub, full to the brim with river water. She looked confused, but smiled despite it. 

“You look… well, you look kinda nutty right now, Boss.” She stifled a snicker, setting the tub down on top of a chair. “Are you… naked for a reason?” 

They shrugged and shouldered their rifle, still clutching their blanket around their middle. “Fuck, Shaundi, I was-- someone found our camp. I shot at him to scare him off, then your hammock was empty.” They pointed into the distance, where the man had run. They swore, shook their head, and turned back to her. “Fuck. We gotta pack up camp. Get the others. I’m getting dressed and we’re moving out.” 

She nodded, her laughter suddenly lost, and was already at her hammock as Aisha dipped back into the tent to tend to Johnny. As they trudged back up to their tent, Carlos was only beginning to untangle himself from the clutter of the wagon. They ran over a mental checklist of everyone in camp-- _ Johnny, Aisha, Shaundi, Carlos, Pierce, Me. We're fine. _

Their hands still shook as they set their gun down. They'd truly thought, for just a _ moment _ , just a _ second, _ it was all happening _ again-- _

"Boss?" 

They turned, only half way in their tent and hand still stretching out for their clothes in the corner. Pierce was behind them, pistol holstered and necklace glinting in the rising sunlight. 

They blinked. 

"That place in Colorado-- you think we'd have room for a dog?" 

A slow, tired smile dawned upon them, easing away the anxiety lingering in their chest. "Of course," they said, with a shrug of the shoulders. "It'll have room for _ five _dogs."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much shorter chapter, but I'm tryna build a bridge... hopefully y'all like it ! I'm really excited to build this au!


	4. Interlude 2

_ Stilwater, Michigan, 1895  _

The air was knives in their lungs, puncturing their throat with every labored breath they took. Dirty fingernails dug into their scalp, tangling their hair into knots and ripping apart their careful braid. They could barely call this a reprieve as they gasped for what breath they could; the winter air was miserable, frozen,  _ cruel.  _

In a split second, their stomach dropped as their head was forced forward. They knew what was coming, and still the voice in their head and the misery in the pit of their stomach  _ screamed  _ for it to stop, begged for it to be over before it started-- but the cry couldn't reach their lips.  _ They wouldn't let it.  _

Their head was back under the ice cold water. Every droplet was a knife piercing the skin of their ruddy, swelling face, and they had already learned not to waste their energy  _ thrashing _ . 

Their hands were bound in rope, their legs knotted together at the ankles, their weapons ripped away and thrown into the gutter. The hand on their head was heavy, and between the freezing water sapping their strength and the rope cutting open their skin, they couldn't  _ fight  _ anymore. It would kill them. It would take whatever life was refusing to be snuffed out. 

The hand ripped them back, and the air hurt as much as the water.  _ But still _ . They gasped, labored for air,  _ desperate.  _

"I know you can talk,  _ bitch _ ," the Pinkerton spat his words like they meant something. "Beg for mercy." 

Their chest burned. Their throat was raw. Each breath they took scraped and stung and bruised. Their wrists were bleeding. They closed their eyes. 

_ They were back underwater _ . 

He held them under so long the panic set in. They couldn't resist; the instinct to  _ fight _ , their body's demand for  _ survival _ , overtook them. 

They thrashed. They rocked their shoulders back and forth and back and forth  _ and back and forth and back and forth  _ until they were forced back into the salty air, tears streaking down their face, invisible. 

"Talk!" 

" _ Cào nǐ mā _ ," they breathed. 

He dragged them away from the water. It was almost dawn; they could see the sun begin to rise, but its light brought no comfort. The abandoned riverbed was never going to offer them any solace-- there was none to be had. 

The Pinkerton grabbed them by the ankles, the bridge of the rope around their boots, and dragged them through the muck back to where the horses stood. William Sharp stood tall and mighty, so  _ proud  _ of himself. 

Swollen eyes glowered at him from the mud. Their lip was split, blood leaking from the cut still, but they told themself they hadn't  _ lost  _ until they lost their  _ pride _ . And, by god, did they have plenty of pride to spare. 

They mustered what saliva they could, twisted on their back in the slick, shit-smelling mud, and spit on Sharp's suit.  _ Rich bastard wears a suit to a murder.  _

"He talks, Sir, but he won't rat on the Saints." The Pinkerton held their ankles, still, and they felt the blood draining out of their exhausted legs. Their feet and hands were going numb. 

Sharp blew a long puff of smoke, a curling gray cloud that danced in the morning air. "No matter," he said, as demure as a killer could be, "We have the two-faced spy, we have Julius's favorite altar boy. I think that's quite a statement, don't you?" 

Lin, all tied up on the ground, bent her legs and sent a two-footed kick into the side of Sharp's knees. She cracked  _ something _ in the joint, a final act of defiance, and Hsin-hung cracked up into a broken, spiteful laugh. 

"Eat shit, Sharp!" She snapped at him. Her voice was rougher than a strip of gravel-- the blood and mud and sweat on her face spoke of a beating worse than their own. "You're a fucking coward. The Saints are gonna skin you alive and turn you into a goddamn horse saddle!" 

Sharp was angry. He was  _ indignant _ . His cigarette was snuffed out in the mud. He stood on an aching knee and curled his lip. "Take them away," he said. "You know what to do." 

The Pinkerton agents and Sharp's rich boy flackies sparked and crackled with a malignant glee. They were slipping through the mud, pulled around like a sack of potatoes, and their hair stuck and pulled and was stepped on, and their body ached and their skin scraped and their shirt tore on the rocks and sticks, and their eyes flashed, wild, to whatever they might see. 

There were horses with decadent blue saddles. There were ugly, nasty men, that they hated so passionately it might consume them. There was Sharp, and Price, and there was pathetic  _ Donnie _ , who grieved, but did  _ nothing _ . They wanted to scream at him. They wanted to  _ blame him _ . 

_ How can you call her your girl and do nothing? Do something, you fucking coward, you fucking spineless coward. Do something! Do  _ ** _something_ ** _ !  _

If not for them, then for  _ her _ , so that they might die knowing their friend would be okay. 

The mud on their face mixed with infuriated tears. They turned to the sky-- cool gray blue, empty, cloudless, cold and light. They stared up at it in a daze as they were dragged along, imagined it suddenly full of cascading arrows that would pierce the bodies of Sharp's men; they imagined being saved by some unknown chance. 

They were forced into a crate on top of Lin, their long legs painfully contorted and forcefully bent into strange positions in order to make them fit. 

" _ Too fuckin' tall _ ," the agent mumbled, smacking them across the face as they struggled against him. "Shoulda just joined the circus, big man." 

The lid slammed shut, and it was just them and Lin in the slated darkness, slowly being shoved down the riverbank. 

Their tears leaked onto her collarbone, now smeared with both their mess. In their ear, her heartbeat thrummed, a fast-beat drum banging with desperation. 

"Hey," she whispered. Her voice was still so strong. So level. She had a cool confidence they dreamed of. "Are you there, kid?" 

Surely she could feel them crammed on top of her. Their knee must be digging into her thigh like no other. They nodded anyway, not understanding what she meant. 

"You did really good. Lotta older guys woulda pissed themselves going through that. More woulda snitched to get out of it." 

They swallowed. Their throat was sore. They felt insecure in their voice, in their words, after so long avoiding conversation. When was the last time they spoke more than six words at a time, to someone they actually cared about? They had to say something. Swearing at a lawman was nothing; talking to someone before they both died required something. "Th-- thank, thank you," they shook. It was cold. It was so  _ fucking  _ cold. The crate hit the water, they dipped, lurched forward, and began to drift along the river. They could hear the waves. They were gentle, now, but soon-- 

"Sorry it all ends like this. Kinda saw it coming, if I'm honest." 

They almost tried to shrug. "It's okay." 

She almost laughed, but it was weak. "I wouldn't call it that." 

The rush picked up, the crate swung violently to the side, suddenly swirling and spinning in furious rapids, and their stomach churned. Lin braced herself, trying to keep firm against the sides of the crate, but she could only do so much. "Did you hear that Donnie?" She gasped. Her voice sounded just a bit, the slightest bit  _ vulnerable _ . "That asshole said I was his girl." 

She was hurt. Indignant. Angry. They closed their eyes and listened to her heart beat. 

_ Bump.  _

_ Bump.  _

_ Bump.  _

_ Crash.  _

They could barely hold their eyes open, underwater. Lin's loosened bindings caught on the rocks, tangled with the swirling rapids and dragged her deeper, further,  _ farther _ , as they were pushed away and up. They wanted to scream. They opened their mouth and tried, but all that escaped them was bubbles and muffled noise and a hollow  _ nothingness  _ that told them it was pointless. The water rushed in to replace their air, fill their lungs,  _ silence their cry.  _

It shoulda been them-- Lin died because they were on top of her. It was supposed to be  _ both  _ of them, but maybe they could've fixed it, could have moved, could have been the one the rock struck-- 

The water forced them up, up,  _ up,  _ until they broke the surface and their body slammed into the muddy shore. They coughed, choked, hawked up water and blood and vomited onto the silt. Their hands and feet were still bound. They couldn't move. They couldn't do anything. They couldn't do anything.  _ They couldn't do anything. Why couldn't they do  _ ** _any_ ** _ thing?  _

They laid in the mud and continued to drown. 


	5. Dead End Alley

The sun was already burning them alive by the time the entire camp was torn down and packed into the wagons. Not a trace left behind, they traded the lakeside repose for the winding trek down the mountains and back into the valley. This world was a peaceful, quiet place, drenched in the beauty of late summer green, and as they broke from the trees of the rocky mountains, they found themself in a deep-sweeping valley, cut in half by a stream and framed by the sharp incline of massive hills. The valley sat flat and low, tall grass resting careful in the wind, and deer and turkeys and a swath of other fauna darted from their incoming caravan. 

They cut down to the bed of the valley, Carlos and Shaundi on their young fox trotters pulling up the front, Aisha steering the supplies cart, Boss driving the wagon freshly covered in cloth, and Pierce riding watch in the back, steady on his bay-coat mare. 

Johnny sat on the back of Aisha's cart, his tense stomach rippling with pain at every sharp jolt of the wooden wheels over uneven ground. Ever the actor, he clenched his jaw and shifted onto the stacks of bedrolls and spare coats. 

No amount of beautiful landscape could distract the ever-present fear of a lawman or a bounty hunter tainting the horizon. Even Johnny, sweating his pain out, gripped a steady rifle in his hand. 

Unfortunately for him, the only man in his sights was Pierce, and he had no interest in shooting him. 

"Washington, 'ey," he beckoned, "Switch me places?" 

Pierce snorted. His brow was dripping sweat under the thick fabric of his Stetson, skin caught ablaze in the midday sun, leaving his cheeks warm and lips dry. He wiped his face on the bandana around his neck, clicking his tongue at Johnny's insolence all the while. "Nah, sir. I'm fine without a bullet in my middle." His words were chideful, but his grin was amiable; such were the ways of their relationship.

"Hey, I never said you had to get shot. I'm just lookin' to be the one on the horse for a while." 

"Yeah, you'd split your guts open tryna ride Moggie right now-- better he pulls the cart and you stay in the bed." 

Johnny pulled a face, shifted in his spot, and made a vague noise of acceptance. Moggie, his dappled Ardennais, was an oversized bastard of a stallion that would only respond to the hand of Johnny or Aisha. Not even the Boss, who he had certainly known for just as long, was allowed to brush his coat or mount his saddle. There was no reasoning with a horse of that sheer magnitude, both in respect to stature and personality, so he sat in his harness and let Aisha drive him as if he were a cart horse. Aisha's own horse, a slender mare with a paint coat, trotted contentedly behind Carlos and Shaundi, bridle guided by Carlos's gentle hand. 

Pierce watched Johnny fidget like a punished child. He almost laughed at him, before urging his horse just the slightest bit forward. "You know, Gat," he began, with a sly tone that edged on playful, "When you're all healed up, we should race sometime." 

Johnny's eyebrows rose. His interest was visibly peaked. Dark eyes shot about to examine the state of Pierce's beloved horse, a stunning mare with a tangible attitude. Clara Schumann, he’d named her, was a Tennessee Walker: a flashy horse with a unique gait, but one bred for utility. Riding, pulling, racing-- they were skilled laborers wrapped up in a show horse exterior. Johnny knew this because Pierce bragged about it _ all the fucking time _; he was so proud of that damn horse it wouldn't surprise him to hear he'd raised the thing from a filly. 

Ardennais were draft horses. Moggie, in particular, was a great lumbering beast. Johnny would rarely even take him on speed-sensitive jobs, instead opting for the speed and reliability of Aisha's mare. Irrationally, he loved Moggie anyway, and claimed him as _ his _ horse, meaning that if Pierce wanted to _ race _ , he meant racing _ Moggie _ against _ Clara _. 

Johnny grinned. He liked this game. "Nah," he said. "Moggie isn't for racing. Moggie is for knockin' shit over. I’ll race you with Tessitura, though.” 

Pierce swung around the cart to eye Aisha’s horse. Tessitura was the kind of horse that one might immediately imagine upon hearing the word “horse” without further context. She was average. _ Alarmingly _so. 

Pierce had never raced her before, but he’d seen her ride. He hummed, spun back to Johnny’s front, and knew Johnny had more confidence than visible in Tessitura’s speed. 

“A’ight, I’ll bite,” he nodded. “Clara and Tessitura. We’ll race once you’re back in one piece.” 

“You planned on _ asking _me, right?” Aisha’s voice suddenly broke through their deal, raised to reach over the clutter of the clattering cart. “Or were you just gonna take Tessi when I wasn’t looking?” 

Johnny pushed himself up, distracted from his pain for just a moment as he leaned back towards her. “Of course, Eesh! Would I ever do anythin’ you don’t want me to?” 

Her response was a burst of short laughter; Johnny grinned, satisfied with that answer, and slid back into place. Pierce met his grin, shook his head, and fell back to the end of the train. 

They, unfortunately, had hours to go, and with every passing moment, Johnny grew more despondent and bored, with only Pierce’s occasional quips to lighten his mood. 

They cut through the valley, crossed the railroad tracks in the mountain bridge, forded the expanse of the rather shallow stream, and found themself in open flatlands. The dry, short grass, no match for the wealth of the valley, stood straight in the meager breeze. Here, with sparse trees and nary a mountain to shade them anymore, the late afternoon sun burned harsh and red down upon them, and their shirts quickly soaked through with sweat and accentuated their aching muscles. They were back on a proper path, and the wheels ran steady on the beaten trail, but their thighs begged for release from the saddle and their shoulders ached with a fierce weary. Still, though, this was the life they lived, and they carried on through every great gust of burning wind. They would travel for hours without passing another soul, and their greatest contact with outside names would be brief greetings as they passed a traveler on the opposite way. Many did not acknowledge their presence, and many more would avoid eye contact as they nodded their head in a placid hello. 

They found themselves much more readily accompanied by the birds of the open country, who could not be bothered with the suspicion and distrust of man. Deer, rabbits, and the occasional pack of wild horses passed them by, averse to the road but intent on the freedom of the plains. It was twilight, the red sun sat low in the orange and purple sky, by the time Carlos and Shaundi alone were close enough to see the wood walls of a small town on the horizon. 

Shaundi let out a loud, exaggerated sigh as soon as she identified the stables on the edge of the road. “About time!” She gasped, as if her body might collapse right then and there. “I thought we’d be out in nothing for, forever.” 

Carlos snorted. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’ve been here longer than I have, you know that?” He raised Nena's reigns, rolling his shoulders as they trotted faster on. "You're a crybaby." 

She waved her arm dismissively, pulled a face at him and continued, "And you're an asshole! C'mon, I wanna get into town, already!" She spurred her mare, Jonesy, onwards, a final sprint before the finish line. 

Carlos clicked his tongue and swore before following suit, urging Nena on with gentle words as she voiced her disapproval of the sudden run. 

They swung down the road into the stable, a rickety old building that could barely call itself a barn. Shaundi pulled up to the open door, trotting Jonesy around in a circle till her momentum was lost. "Howdy!" She called. "Y'all hold horses here overnight? I gotta caravan comin' through, and we're likely to not be headin' out till tomorrow morning." 

The worker at the door chewed on a piece of tobacco. Blank eyes looked Shaundi up and down, as if appraising her worth as a customer, before snapping to Carlos upon his approach. He chewed a moment longer, curious and slow, before spitting on the ground. "What's y'all's names, and how many horses?" 

"Hattie, nine horses." 

"What's y'all's business?" 

Carlos dismounted and patted Nena on the neck. "Just passing through." 

Gray eyes locked on his, and he found himself taken aback by the way such a dull look could feel so piercing. An unnerving twitch shot down his spine. 

"Who're you?" 

"Charles," he said. 

"Charles what?" 

"Mendleton." _ Was that even a real name? _ He was just throwing sounds together. _ Lying didn't come easy to him. _He wished he'd listened when the Boss had told him to always have a fake name ready. 

"He's my husband," Shaundi interjected, suddenly, as she dropped from her horse's back. "We're on the route with some other families to a piece of land out west." Her grin and ease could null any situation; she spoke as if spinning a story was the simplest thing in the world. Carlos wondered sometimes if she could swindle her way past a Pinkerton holding her photograph in one hand and her bounty poster in the other. She swung her hand out to the stable hand with that same disarming grin, and Carlos mimicked her loose stance. "Hattie Mendleton, pleasure to meet ya." 

Slow, thoughtful chews on a nasty slab of tobacco. It was rather like a stand-off, but instead of guns the weapon was _ social acceptance. _With a hesitant uncertainty, he returned the gesture and shook her hand. "Not many strangers 'round here," he said. His words were slow and, somehow, carelessly methodical. "Not many." 

"We won't be in long," Carlos assured. 

He gave another slow nod. "Nine horses." 

"Nine." 

As he tried not to bristle under the discomfort of judging eyes, the telltale sound of a rattling wagon made its way to their backs. Shaundi spun on her heel, waving to the sight of Boss and Aisha, Pierce close behind. "That's them!" she grinned. 

Carlos's eyes stuck to the stablehand's unreadable face. Something was at a disease. Something was making his hands twitch. Something made him want to stay frozen in spot, hand resting on the holster at his side. 

He relented, and went with Shaundi to help unhook the horses. 

"Here," he said, offering the Boss his hand. They were all done up in their favorite disguise, a persona by the name of _ June Liu _, that they reserved for any and all innocent ventures. Their tan face was obscured in the shade of their wide-brim boater hat and framed by twin braids with ribbons woven in. They barely looked the same Boss that he’d watched execute a police officer just a day ago; it would be easy to forget the memory of their casual stance as they pressed the barrel of their pistol to a man’s forehead, as he admired their soft white dress and delicate glance. “Let me help.” 

They took his hand they same way they’d watched a hundred proper ladies do, and dropped down beside him with a small thump. Before the stable hand could look at their face, they’d flicked open a hand fan and began the covert process of masking the identifiable scars on their lips and chin. They met Carlos’s eye with a small nod of the head, and turned their back on the scene to accompany Johnny off the cart, and escort him and Aisha down the road to the hotel. 

That left Carlos, Pierce, and Shaundi, to help store the wagons and arrange for the horses’ stalls. 

He took a deep breath, resented his ever-present nerves, and dug the pre-portioned cash out of his pocket to give the stablehand. 

“Strange family,” the man commented. 

“Families.” 

“No kids with ya, uh?” 

“No longer with us.” He struggled as he said it, his tongue stumbling over such a heavy lie, and had to hope it came across as grief. 

The man gave a slow, heavy nod. “Sorry for it.” 

Carlos shifted on the balls of his feet. 

The stablehand finally took his pay. As soon as the cash left his hand, Carlos ducked over to the cart and kept his head down. 

“Something feels off here,” he whispered, tucked against Pierce’s side. He was the shortest member of the gang, aside from Shaundi, and though he generally found himself frustrated and annoyed with how Pierce, Johnny, and Boss towered over him, he chose to take advantage of it this once so he might dip from view for a moment. He leaned around Pierce to glance at the stablehand after the accusation left his lips, only to see him walking away with Nena and Jonesy.

Pierce gave a curious glance, matching his gaze to the retreating hand. “What,” he whispered, “you never dealt with a hick before, greenhorn?” 

“Not that!” Carlos frowned. His fingers twitched. “There’s something-- I don’t know what it is; this place just feels… bad.” He shrugged with a twinge of irritation, a sign to Pierce that he wasn’t in the mood to joke. 

Pierce merely raised his eyebrows as he swung a bag of clothes over his shoulder. “Grab that bag-- listen, you think I don’t know? Keep your gun on you, but don’t be shaky.” 

He almost rolled his eyes. “You sound like my old man.” 

“Oh, your old man is smart and handsome? Good to know.” 

Shaundi laughed at both of them. She jumped off the back of the wagon with her personal satchel slung across her chest, and almost slipped over her own feet as she landed. Quickly recovered, she swung into Carlos's side. 

"Don't worry," she grinned, sandwiching him against Pierce. "I got your back." 

He started to pull a face, certain she was mocking his intuitions out of some blithe humor, but he stopped when she gripped his arm and squeezed. He trusted her. She trusted him back. 

With a deep sigh to shake loose his reservations, he joined them on the trek up town to the two story building at the end of the road. Faded white letters on sun-bleached wood proclaimed, "HOTEL" in meticulously painted capital letters. The entire thing looked like a desert bone; even the awnings held little color anymore, turned faded pink from all the time they'd spent baking in the sun. 

They were all forced to wonder how much travel this town actually saw. 

Aisha and the Boss sat outside, perched on the edge of a shoddy old bench on the side of the building, speaking low and quiet to one another. Upon approach, Aisha glanced up to them and folded her arms. 

"Congratulations, Mr. Washington," she said, "Ms. Liu stole Johnny from me, and now _ you _get to be my husband for the day." 

Pierce laughed with short disbelief. He offered Aisha his arm, who stood and took it plaintively. "Hey, don't sound so mad," he teased, "if anything, you got the better deal." 

Her laugh punctuated the content lock of their arms as she stood at his side, looking up and down the barren roads. "Well, that means you get to take me to find a damn doctor before everything closes. We're almost out of medicine and I am _ not _gonna watch Johnny die from an infection, of all things." 

He grinned, tipped his hat at the rest of them, and helped Aisha off the splintered porch. "Have fun setting up the rooms; we're gonna go shopping." 

"And probably spend the whole time talking about musical theory," Shaundi interjected, plopping down next to the Boss. 

"Probably." 

The three of them watched the two of them walk off, and sat clustered in the paltry cover the thin awning provided. It was blazing hot outside, despite the setting sun, and the streets were still empty, save for a few dusty cowpokes lingering outside a saloon. The heat was both audible and visible, making the air around them sizzle and waver, and the Boss flicked their fan open once more. 

“Hey, Boss?” Carlos began, quiet and unsure. “Does this place… doesn’t it seem a little off?” 

“It’s a step away from being a ghost town,” Shaundi answered instead. “There’s no one around!” 

The Boss nodded. “Look eastward. See that in the hills? Mines, look old. Bet you the vein dried up.” 

Carlos glanced up, staring out at the distant hills and the strange formations cascading down their sides. “The town’s drying up with it,” he mumbled, his eye still following the strange ridges.

“They demanded this land, drained it for all it had, and now there’s nothing left to drain, so they leave to do it again somewhere else. But the people that stay? They’re bitter. They’re angry. They aren’t supposed to be the ones that _ lose. _ They’re supposed to be the ones that _ take. _ So they look for something, or _ someone _, to blame in the meantime.” 

Shaundi and Carlos glanced up to the Boss, watching their distant eyes from behind their fluttering white fan. Sweat slipped down the side of their face, cutting marks into the pale dust accumulating on their cheeks. They were watching the horizon, looking for something, maybe anything. 

Somewhere, maybe from the saloon, they could hear a harmonica begin to play. It was a simple, lonesome tune, that drew on the push and pull of the swirling breeze. 

The Boss stopped flicking their fan to listen. 

“Was it the same?” Shaundi asked, staring up at them from where she’d sat on the porch. “Up in Michigan, I mean.” 

They nodded. “Different, but the same. You could sit on the church steps and watch the industrialists fight. Everything was just-- it all came down to what you owned. How much of it you could get. All these corporations, gangs, scrambling to seize what was never meant to be theirs.” They laughed, suddenly, and leaned back into the bench. “My grandmother, she used to look at it all, and she would point at each person and lean into my ear and go, _ kotooo, koto koto koto, _ ” they said, mimicking her accent and the balance of her speech. “ _ Flea _.” 

Carlos snorted, a small smile drawing across his face. “My brothers used to chuck spoiled eggs at all the rich wagons that would pull through. Sometimes they’d get caught, mostly they didn’t.” He laughed, a small slip of breath. “Before Héctor went up to Stilwater for work, I watched him smack a real estate agent right in the face with a slab of mud. The fool’d been tryna bully our old man into selling our home, and Héctor just lobbed him. He was in trouble for weeks.” 

Shaundi laughed, and leaned over to rest her head on the Boss’s knee. “My grandpa used to fire his rifle as a _ warning _ anytime someone in a suit got even a little too close. Just right into the sky. One time he hit a bird, and it just--” she made a sharp gesture, slapping her hands down onto her thighs, “ _ Blam! _Right at his feet. It was the funniest thing I’d ever seen! All us kids were howling, rolling around laughing. We ended up eating it for dinner. Tasted like shit.” 

Carlos laughed freely, and the Boss hid their amusement behind the screen of their fan. Somewhere in the distance, that harmonica paused, and maybe its player heard their laugher, because it picked up a less somber tune. 

They sat there a moment, roasting in the remains of the summer sun, until Johnny swung open the door of the old hotel and turned the corner towards them. He dangled three keys from his hand, all glinting in vermillion light. “Three rooms,” he said, “one for each _ couple. _” He struggled not to snicker as he said it, limping over to the bench. 

Shaundi clapped. “I heard you and Ms. Liu finally tied the knot! Hurt you didn’t invite me.” 

Johnny sat with a small groan, resting his damaged body as best he could. “Shotgun weddings don’t send many invites.” 

The Boss smacked his shoulder with their fan. “Prick.” 

“Hey, you’re the one getting the attention of old freaks.”

“What happened in there?”

Johnny snorted. “Innkeep thought the Boss was kinda _ cute _, you know?” 

The Boss grimaced. “Funny how quick being married shuts a man up. Maybe I should get a husband.” 

“Too bad I already got Carlos-- _ Charles _,” Shaundi said, playfully kicking her boot out to point at him. “You’re lookin’ at Mr. and Mrs. Mendleton, with a stablehand as our witness.” 

Carlos scrunched up, his face tight. He smacked Shaundi’s boot away. “Shut up, _ Hattie _.” He turned his attention back to the Boss. “Why do we do the whole set of couples thing, anyway?” 

“Boss and I used to do it all the time back when it was just the two of us,” Johnny said, leaning back. “Eesh came down separate, long time after we’d already left the state. Law was lookin’ for two adult young men travelling by horse.” 

“So we became something else,” the Boss finished. “Plus, it helps. No one looks at a caravan of families with much suspicion. Lots of families stick together to travel. It’s safer in a pack, always.” 

“And it keeps the law confused. When we’re out doin’ the _ fun stuff _, we’re a gang of men. When we’re not, we’re 3 families trying to get by.” 

Carlos blinked. He remembered the first time he’d watched the Boss help Shaundi tie up her hair, shadow her face, and bulk up her shoulders and waist with a heavy waistcoat and jacket. He’d been amazed at how easily they toyed with perception, something he’d once never even known was possible. 

He knew for Shaundi, _ Shaun Hayhurst _ was just a persona to keep her bounty low and confused. It was a role she played. For the Boss, he could never be too sure which face was actually _ them _. Maybe it was all of them, June and Xavier and Hsin-hung, or maybe it wasn’t any of them.

The Boss was talking as he got lost in his own thoughts. “Pretending to be someone’s spouse gets less awkward the more you do it.” 

“You guys got it all figured out, huh?” He was a little bit in awe. Their plan seemed to stretch a thousand yards back and a hundred yards forward. Every step they took felt purposeful, cultivated, and he wondered if he was just bouncing along with them like a loyal puppy. 

Johnny snorted, shook his head, and leaned back. “Well, you know, you figure it out as you go along.” He made a loose gesture with his hands. “We’ve been at it for a while.” 

Shaundi twisted her neck to look at him. “You ever dressed up as a girl, Gat?” 

“Nah. That’s not really up my alley.” 

“June Liu was my idea,” the Boss explained. They twirled one of their long braids around their gloved hand, admiring the way the white ribbon struck a contrast against their black hair. “I had ulterior motives.” 

“I thought they were losin' it. Begging to get themself killed by some backwoods midwesterners with bibles and pitchforks. Like they didn't have it hard enough.” His words came out shallow and bitter, punctuated by a disdainful glance out at nothing. “Lucky I was already used to doing all the talkin’ for you, you mute fuck.” 

They laughed. Shaundi grinned and pressed her cheek into their knee. “Awe, Gat, you’re no fun.” 

“I’m content like this.” 

“Why didn’t you talk?” 

“My voice is deeper than the ocean, Carlos. It’d out me in a minute.” 

“No, I meant-- like, before.” 

“Oh.” They blinked. Johnny gave them a lukewarm, but somewhat expectant glance. “Well--” they tried, “I don’t really-- it’s hard to explain.” 

“They were mute,” Johnny shrugged instead. “Happens.” 

Shaundi and Carlos shared a momentary glance that promised they were asking the same question. Whether Johnny knew the answer or was prone to just accepting the Boss exactly as they were, they couldn’t be certain. He had a tendency of speaking in a very face-value manner, as if things were as simple as left and right, but there was always a hint of something deeper going on in his head. It was an imposed simplicity, a purposeful shallowness, that didn’t really reflect him wholly. 

The appearance of encroaching footsteps lead to another opening of the fan, another stiffening of all their backs, until they heard the chatter and realized it was Pierce and Aisha. 

“Evening,” Aisha chirped. In her arms she clutched a paper bag that clinked and clanged with clacking bottles as she approached; they guessed their funds were a chunk lighter in exchange. 

“Friendly doctor?” The Boss asked. 

Aisha dropped the bag into Johnny’s lap, immediately taking out a particular bottle and shoving it into his hands. “Friendly enough. He just seemed glad to see business.” She pointed to the bottle in Johnny’s hands. “Apply this. Soon as possible, please.” 

He tucked it into his shirt. “Course.” 

Pierce propped one foot on the edge of the porch. “Doctor’s done, general store and the gunsmith are closed-- how’re hotel rooms?” 

Johnny plucked a key from his pocket and tossed it into Pierce’s hands. “Got us three. Eesh and I take one; the rest of you get to fight.” 

Shaundi's hand shot up. "I call Boss! They smell the best." 

"You don't get to call Boss; no one can _ call _Boss," Boss chided. "But, deal. You don't take up much room." 

Pierce rubbed his eye and shook his head. "That's you and me, Carlos." 

Johnny offered a hand that Pierce knew better than to accept. “Don’t be sad, Washington. It all tastes the same under the covers." 

His laughter was nearly masked by the abruptive repulsion immediately garnered from Pierce and Carlos alike. He couldn't be silenced even as his shoulders were bombarded with banterous shoves of disapproval, though he was almost drowned out in the laughter falling from Boss, Shaundi, and Aisha. 

That was how they met the night, lost in their own crass humor and tucked away from the troubles of the rest of the town. The twilight slipped into blissful blackness, the comfort of an impenetrable dark night, and the town barely bothered to light their lanterns as the last reaches of the sun slipped away. They danced in shadow, perched on their bench, caught up in themselves as the stars lazily began to sweep across the sky. It wasn't until the half-moon was dangling high in the sky, gazing down over the blue desert, that the icy breeze began to pierce their skin and they relented to the call of the hotel's comforts. 

They crowded up creaking stairs and flat wooden floors coated with the silence of a personless nighttime, and found themselves wall to wall. Aisha and Johnny slipped away into their room, forever able to make anywhere their home as long as they had each other, and while Carlos and Shaundi dropped off their things and plodded back downstairs to use the baths, Pierce and the Boss were left for a moment to their own devices. 

"Mr. Washington?" 

He glanced over his shoulder. Their rough voice broke the cricket-infested quiet as he sat on his bed digging through his satchel for toiletries. 

The rooms were small, barely big enough for the queen-sized beds and single dressers that sat within them. The small window on the left wall was opened, the tartan curtains billowing gently in the frigid breeze. Outside was already pitch black, save for the distant glow of the lanterns on the saloon wall. And in the doorway, there was them. 

They were barefoot, with their hip-length hair loose from its neat braids. They'd already stripped to their underclothes, and he blinked at the way the orange glow from the hallway framed them in soft, hazy light. 

If memory served, Julius had called them Saints, once. With the light behind them and their presence so gentle and loose, he could see it. 

He set his bag on the floor. "Yeah?" 

"Could you-- I know this is stupid, don't laugh-- I'm stuck in my corset. I think I tied it wrong." 

He stifled a snort. "C'mere." 

They approached his open arms, sat next to him on the bed. It groaned under their shared weight, but they tucked their long legs under their body and turned their back to him, heavy hair pulled over their shoulders to reveal the intricacies of their modest corset. 

It wasn't fancy. Corsets were drifting out of style, especially amongst frontier and working women, but they were visibly more interested in the shape of their waist than the style of their clothes. It was a practical, simple piece, that they wore a bit tighter than most women would. 

He traced the careful lacing with gentle fingers, only to suddenly find it knotted and haphazardly snatched together at the ends. He shook his head. "You were in a rush, huh?" 

They sighed. "No comment." 

He barely laughed, untying them from their fabric prison. "How do you breathe in this shit, anyway?" 

"They're really not as bad as you think," they said. "I like the shape it gives me." 

He didn't really know the right response, so he made a rare choice and didn't say anything for a moment. With every knot he undid, a little more of their back was exposed, and his eyebrow twitched at a strange sensation. 

The skin on their back had an unusual texture; it was tight and too smooth, like it was puffed out and stretched. He squinted in the dim light, and realized their back was almost entirely painted over in burn scars. The skin was red, raised, and poignant enough that he was surprised he'd never noticed it before. Their shoulders rolled uncomfortably as his hands lingered a moment too long on a particularly bad patch of scar tissue, and a question died on his lips. Instead, he finished freeing them from their corset. 

They twisted in their spot, uncinching the front before pulling it off their body. Their low-cut chemise slouched dramatically, as if exhausted by freedom, and slipped down their shoulders to almost expose their chest. He reached out and retied the decorative bow on the collar. They smiled at him. 

"Thank you, Mr. Washington." 

"You can call me Pierce, you know. It's been almost four months." 

They snorted. "I'll call you Pierce when you call me Hsin-hung." 

"No one calls you Hsin-hung. No one but Ms. Aisha." 

"Maybe that's my point." 

He made a face at them. They kind of laughed.

“Boss, let me ask you somethin’.” 

“Yeah?” 

“It’s kinda-- Well, curious. Not something I’ve ever asked someone before.” 

“First time for everything.” 

He paused. “Are you a woman?” 

They blinked. There was a very long pause, where their hesitation hung in the air like a heavy cloud. It felt, almost, like they knew the answer, but not how to say it. Instead of answering, they asked, “You’ve waited four months to ask that?” 

He shrugged. “It never actually mattered. The letters made me curious. I guess I shoulda known it, but reading it-- It was strange, to think there was a time when you were a full-time man.” 

They snorted. “I was never a full-time man. And I shouldn’t’ve let you read those letters if they make you think things about me.” 

“A’ight, read ‘em yourself.” 

“Cruel joke,” they said. “But-- no, and yes. Yes-no. No-yes. I’m a homosexual. When you ask me that, that’s the first thing I think: I’m a homosexual.” 

He took a second to process. He must of known that, he was sure, but it wasn’t something often heard spoken aloud. “I’m bisexual,” he returned. “I heard that word-- it’s a new one. So you aren’t alone in that.” 

He noted the way their eyes lingered on him when they nodded at that. “Good to hear. We’re a whole gang of sexual delinquents, really. If you weren’t okay with it, I woulda just killed you.” 

“Fair,” he said. “But I don’t get how that answers my question, if you’re not a man, either.” 

They sighed, rather quietly, and shifted to stare at the wall. It was too dark to see the minute patterns in the rough wood, but they stared at it nonetheless. “I think I’m a man and a woman forced to share a body. I thought I was _ just _a woman, once. Thought I had to choose. Sometimes I think too hard about how I’ll never grow breasts or bear my own children and I wanna rip all my skin off and scream; then sometimes, I think that if I was born like that, I wouldn’t really be me, and I look just as I’m supposed to. And then I think about men, and loving them as a man, and I think, no, I wouldn’t want to love them as a woman.” They took another pause, though this one lingered in the silence much longer. “Do you think I’m a bad person for that?” 

“No,” he said, without having to consider. “I think you kill people, and that’s definitely curious, but I can’t hate you for being honest.” 

“Do you think I’m crazy?” 

“No, not that either.” 

They turned to look at him, and he rather liked how soft their face was when they spoke vulnerably. He liked their soft look and curious eyes, and he wondered where the line between _ Boss _ and _ Hsin-hung _was actually laid. “Did I answer your question?” 

He nodded.

“Was it the corset that confused you?” 

He snorted. “No, it’s you as a person that confuses me. I can’t tell if you’re an evil serial killer or a misunderstood antihero. Feminine mystique is secondary to the equation.” 

They laughed. “You think I have feminine mystique?” 

“I think you have mystique in general.” 

They grinned at him. They were missing a canine, a small gap in the side of their otherwise well-cared for grin that told him there was still so much he didn’t know about their story. Every second spent with them unveiled another intricacy, another mystery to unravel. 

He met their grin. It was infectious. They were a magnet of a person, someone who drew others in without even trying. “Maybe you are a little strange,” he said. “But if you are, it’s in a way that I like.”

They laughed. "Whatever you say, Washington. I'll see you in the morning, yeah?" 

"Course." 

Neither of them moved. They did not keep each other’s glance, either, as if held down by the dark, before Hsin-hung reached out and adjusted his askew collar. "Okay," they said, "now I can go." 

As they stood, the door creaked open-- Carlos startled a bit as he saw their figure standing in the dim light, but quickly settled as he met their face. "Boss?" His short hair was damp and a towel still hung around his shoulders, but he was dressed for sleep and looking much fresher than the rest of them. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I just needed some help," they shrugged. They dipped around him, out into the hall. "Shaundi still down there?" 

"Yeah-- think so." 

"Right. See you tomorrow.” 

Carlos glanced between the Boss, as they retreated into their room, and Pierce. “Did I interrupt something--”

“No! No, it’s not like that." 

"Oh," he blinked, his eyes wide, "alright." He sat down on the edge of the bed, rubbing his blue towel over his head. "Can I ask you a question, Washington? Nothing to do with Boss." 

"Close the door. But, yeah, shoot." 

Carlos stood and shut the door. It was unfit in the frame and a single beam of gentle light still streamed through its side. He frowned, thought, and found his words in a strange form. "Who are you people?"


	6. Interlude 2.5: A Brief Introduction

**IN THE STATE OF MICHIGAN, THE GOOD CITY OF STILWATER, 1895**

_ XAVIER KUO _

Known gangster and affiliate of PASTOR LITTLE, previous associations unknown

BY THE JUST SHERIFF MONROE, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE 

REWARD: $$$25,000 ALIVE, 15,000 DEAD$$$

_ FOR THE CRIMES OF AGGRAVATED ASSAULT, AIDING AND ABETTING, ASSAULT AND BATTERY, ARSON, BURGLARY, EXTORTION, FORGERY, FRAUD, HOMICIDE, MORAL DEVIANCY, MURDER OF THE SECOND DEGREE, ROBBERY, THEFT, AND VANDALISM _

Kuo is described as a Taiwanese Aborigine, native to the island east of China. He is known to take many aliases. He is said to be 17 or 18 years of age, 7 feet 2 inches in height, of tan complexion, black eyes, black hair worn past his shoulders, clean shaven, and weighing about 300 pounds. Additional features include notable scars on his lips and chin, tattoos on his arms, and selective mutism. 

LAST SEEN FLEEING STILWATER TO THE SOUTH, ON HORSEBACK WITH ACCOMPLICE, WEARING A RED SHIRT AND BLACK HAT. ARMED AND DANGEROUS. 

_ JOHNNY GAT _

Known gangster and affiliate of PASTOR LITTLE, previous associations unknown 

BY THE JUST SHERIFF MONROE, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE 

REWARD: $$$28,000 ALIVE, 13,000 DEAD$$$

_ FOR THE CRIMES OF AGGRAVATED ASSAULT, AIDING AND ABETTING, ASSAULT AND BATTERY, ARSON, ATTEMPT, BURGLARY, DISORDERLY CONDUCT, DISTURBANCE OF THE PEACE, DRUG TRAFFICKING, EXTORTION, HOMICIDE, MANSLAUGHTER (VOLUNTARY), MANSAUGHTER (INVOLUNTARY), MURDER OF THE FIRST DEGREE, MURDER OF THE SECOND DEGREE, PUBLIC INDECENCY, ROBBERY, THEFT, AND VANDALISM _

Gat is described as a Korean man of aggressive nature. He is known to incite violence and violent acts. He is said to be 22 years of age, 6 feet 1 inch in height, of fair complexion, black eyes, black hair, clean shaven, and weighing about 240 pounds. Additional features include prescription eyeglasses, tattoos on his neck, and a noticeable limp when he walks. 

LAST SEEN FLEEING STILWATER TO THE SOUTH, ON HORSEBACK WITH ACCOMPLICE, WEARING A BLACK SHIRT AND BLACK PANTS. ARMED AND DANGEROUS. 

**IN THE TERRITORY OF OKLAHOMA, 1898 **

_ SHAUNDI FLORA DE VRIES _

Daughter of local ranchers Shaun and Dilys De Vries, please do not mistake for her currently lawful sisters. 

BY THE JUST SHERIFF HALL, WANTED ALIVE 

REWARD: $$$1000$$$

_ FOR THE CRIMES OF DISORDERLY CONDUCT, INDECENT EXPOSURE, MANSLAUGHTER (VOLUNTARY), MURDER OF THE SECOND DEGREE, AND THEFT. _

Ms. De Vries is described as a young woman of Dutch and Welsh descent. She is known to be unladylike. She is said to be 17 years of age, 5 feet 4 inches in height, of fair complexion, green eyes, light brown hair, and weighing about 115 pounds. Additional features include hair that is often matted and unwashed, and a disregard for modest and feminine dress. 

LAST SEEN FLEEING NORTHEAST ON HORSEBACK, WEARING A MAN'S SHIRT AND A BLACK HAT. ARMED. 

**IN THE STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA, THE GOOD CITY OF BETHLEHEM, 1897**

_ PIERCE EZRAH WASHINGTON _

Former worker for the city, now a repeat offender of the law. Not to be mistaken for his currently lawful brother, who in the city still resides. 

BY THE JUST SHERIFF EDWARDS, WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE 

REWARD: $$$20,000 ALIVE, 10,000 DEAD$$$

_ FOR THE CRIMES OF AGGRAVATED ASSAULT, AIDING AND ABETTING, ASSAULT AND BATTERY, BRIBERY, BURGLARY, EMBEZZLEMENT, EXTORTION, FORGERY, FRAUD, MONEY LAUNDERING, MURDER OF THE SECOND DEGREE, PROBATION VIOLATION, RACKETEERING, ROBBERY, AND THEFT. _

Washington is described as a black man. He is known to associate with others of criminal repute. He is said to be 25 years of age, 6 feet in height, of dark complexion, black eyes, black hair, a small and trim moustache, and weighing about 240 pounds. Additional features include a predisposition to wearing hats, a broad and bulky figure, and a tattoo on his neck. 

LAST SEEN IN THE CITY LIMITS, HEADING SOUTHWEST ON HORSEBACK, WEARING A BLUE SHIRT AND BLACK JACKET. ARMED AND DANGEROUS. 

**IN THE STATE OF TEXAS, THE GOOD CITY OF NACOGDOCHES, 1899 **

_ CARLOS AMATO MENDOZA OCHOA _

Former rancher and middle son of the Mendozas, not to be mistaken for his brothers. 

BY THE JUST SHERIFF GARCIA, WANTED ALIVE

REWARD: $$$1200$$$ 

_ FOR THE CRIMES OF AIDING AND ABETTING, ASSAULT AND BATTERY, ATTEMPT, EMBEZZLEMENT, FORGERY, MONEY LAUNDERING, MURDER OF THE SECOND DEGREE, AND THEFT. _

Mendoza is described as a Mexican man of a reserved disposition. Little has been disclosed about his behavior or personality. He is said to be 18 years of age, 5 feet 5 inches in height, of fair complexion, brown eyes, shaved hair, clean shaven, and weighing about 145 pounds. Additional features include tattoos on his arms, a hat with a purple band that he is very fond of, and a tick to look downwards when he speaks. 

LAST SEEN NEAR LAKE NACOGDOCHES, HEADING NORTHWEST ON HORSEBACK, WEARING HIS PREFERRED HAT AND A WHITE SHIRT. ARMED AND DANGEROUS. 

_ Saint Andrew’s On The Tracks Music Club _

_ The New Craze Dancing through Michigan! No other does music like Saint Andrew’s! _

In the singing new Ezpata district of lovely old Stilwater, pay Old Saint Andrew some service and hear what Angels must be singing! Music all Night, food and drink to match! The new railroad trains your beat, then our fire is the engine! 

New Acts every week, plus the good old favorites! 

Open entry, something for everyone! Find your sound at Saint Andrew’s On The Tracks! 

Featuring Stilwater’s Golden Girl and Star Act, _ Ms. Aisha Palmer, _performing nightly during Special Hour. 

_ Selling Special Edition Phonograph Cylinders during Exclusive Events. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if volition wont give their characters full names ill fucking do it for them


	7. A Man, A Horse, A Gun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like now's a good time to bring it up-- I can't in good faith write this au without at least MENTIONING some of the horrendous things going on in the US, especially during this time. The first two saints row games were central to the tension of racism and poverty and gentrification, and when you take that and slap a historical au on top of it, it's inevitable to run into some nasty stuff. My goal isn't to write a story about minorities suffering-- I'm a transgender gay man and I know there's no joy in watching people that reflect you being tortured by authors claiming "realism" as an excuse for their misery-porn (suck my ass, bioware). But to completely idealize the old west, even in my goofy-ass fanfic, is to do a disservice to the people that lived through it and fought for better. I'm not interested in throwing around slurs or graphic hate crimes; i wanna keep the bigotry secondary to the actual story, probably even tertiary, but here's a cw for the fic that people are gonna be cruel. I'm just some white boy writing for fun, so this is probably gonna border more on the topics of homophobia and transphobia than racism, cause I feel more secure in writing that, and it's more my story to tell. I won't explain too much cuz, spoilers, but please be warned as we delve into conflict. I don't think it's anything worse than shown in the actual Saints Row games, but since I couldn't find an appropriate tag for "bigotry exists and it definitely affects these guys, it's just not central to the plot", I thought I'd bring it up here. Love y'all.

Carlos woke up well after dawn. The sun was blazing in as a force of great bright light through the thin curtains, and he felt much like a loaf of bread being baked in an oven. His eyes and lips were gummy and caked together by sweat and spit, and even his pillow was dampened by the slick of his forehead. Already he could hear the loose chatter of people on the street and the rickety tumble of wagon wheels outside, a clear sign that the world had decided to rise already.

He had his back to Pierce, enough inches apart that he couldn't touch him, but he could feel the tug of the sheets as the larger man shifted in his sleep. Carlos’s hand dangled loosely off the edge of the bed, lingering in the still, stuffy air, before he curled back into himself and buried his face into the pillow. 

They’d had a strange conversation last night. Carlos had asked a weird question, misphrased and difficult to make sense of.  _ Who are you people _ , he’d said, his own confusion run away from him and misshaping his words into something almost accusatory. 

He’d been with this gang for a month and two weeks, now. He’d met the Boss when he was travelling north, hoping to discover the fate of his brother, only to meet the sorry news on a dusty road in Arkansas. Wanted by his home county and no brother to run to in Michigan, he found himself heading back into Texas with their caravan. 

He didn't feel like an outsider with them, but he didn't feel like an insider, either. Even Shaundi, who'd arrived only a few weeks before him, acted as if she knew all the intricacies of the group already. 

He was beginning to realize she was just  _ like that _ , a being who could insert herself into anything and find a way to fit in, but he couldn't palate the dissonance he felt anyway. 

_ “You're just… you're a middle child. In your head, you're always gonna be the middle child,”  _ Pierce had said as they sat in the dark.  _ “I’ve been the eldest brother since I was five. I saw it in my siblings, I see it in you. You think you don't know us cause we aren't letting you in, but, damn, it's a two-way street, huh?” _

There was a chicken clucking around outside. There was the trot of horse steps and the creak of people on wooden platforms. He shoved his face deeper into the pillow. 

_ “Is this it?”  _ He’d asked, “ _ Is this who we are now? Do you ever stop being an outlaw?” _

_ “Maybe not. Does that fuck with your head?” _

_ “A little. I don’t know. I’m loyal, you know? And I don’t give a shit. But I think, I have no idea what we are. Who we are.”  _

_ “We’re people the world doesn’t want, tryin' to get by.”  _

There was a knock at the door. He groaned, unwilling to move, until he heard the knock get impatient. Pierce rolled over beside him, and he hoped  _ he _ would handle it, before a rough hand reached out and shoved him off the bed. 

He swore, groaned, and sat on the floor. " _ ¡Pendejo!"  _ he spat, scratching at his head as he stood. 

The entire room was very rustic, he noticed now. In the baking sunlight, the walls and floor were both of pale maple wood, the quilt was faded off-white and warm colored patches, and the tartan curtains fluttered gentle and thin. It was very different from the home he grew up in, and it was even more different from the camps they set up in the wilderness. But he liked it, and he wondered how long they would stay. 

The knocking was back. He stepped around items he'd thrown on the floor and swung it open, too sleepy to practice discretion. 

The Boss stood before him, already dressed and styled for the day, and chewing on a piece of bacon. 

"Breakfast," they said, offering him a plate of baked beans and toast. "Dunno what you like. More downstairs." 

He blinked. "This place does breakfast?" 

"It does when the innkeep is hoping you'll cuckold your fake husband." They swallowed and nodded their head down the hall. "It's actually from the saloon, but he helped me bring it over." 

Carlos laughed a bit and took the plate, already reaching for some toast. "I thought he creeped you out, Boss." 

"He does. It's called making the best of a bad situation. Is Pierce awake?" 

"Nah," he said as he chewed, turning to glance back. "Well, yeah. But he's not up." 

"Lazy bastard," they chided. They stepped past him, over to the bed, and leaned over Pierce. "Ey, Washington, I'm not whoring myself out so you can sleep through breakfast." 

Pierce rolled over to blink at them. He took a deep breath, yawned, and mumbled at them, "we're that desperate, huh? Fellatio for sad old men to pay off our bounties?" 

Carlos pulled a face, but the Boss laughed. "Nah, I'm not there yet. My services include looking demure and giving a glance of cleavage." 

“Mm, hell of a menu.” He sat up, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Fuck, it’s nice to have an actual bed for once.” 

“Don’t get too used to it. We have a while to go.” 

Pierce was used to that answer, and he stood as if it were a typical “good morning” to receive. Carlos, on the other hand, found himself frowning. 

“How much longer?” he asked. 

The Boss straightened their back. They met his eyes, but they weren’t angry or accusatory. They almost looked curious, intrigued by his sudden assertiveness. They blinked for a second, rolling their silence around on their tongue. 

“A single acre of land is usually about 20 dollars. Might be cheaper in Colorado, might be more. I wanna get us 40 acres. That’s around 800 dollars. I have about 200 of that squirreled away for the land. I don’t have anything for construction costs, cattle, crops, or poultry, not yet,” they finally explained. “If I haven’t been transparent, that’s not my intention. I’m no Julius.” 

“That’s not what I meant,” Carlos insisted. He didn’t know much about Julius, but he’d heard enough. He glanced down at his feet, fingers twitching as he thought. “So we’re not close.” 

The Boss stiffened and shifted the balance of their feet. “No,” they admitted. “We’re not. But it doesn’t matter. We’ll make it through.” 

Pierce was beginning to get dressed, but he gave the Boss a glance from the corner of his eyes and let confusion distort his lips. “How is it only 200?” He straightened his shoulders and rested his hands on his belt. “I thought you halved the camp funds for it.” 

“I was overexcited when I said that. We could never afford that.” 

“So how do you do it?” 

They sighed and sat down on the bed, patting out their skirt. “Y’all exhaust me. You know I hate math.” They complained, but continued, “We pulled 522 dollars last job. Half of that is 261. 261 goes to camp, 261 goes to us  _ individuals.  _ We each get 43 dollars and 50 cents for our own pleasure. You recall?” 

The two men in the room nodded. 

“Right. The other 261 goes to camp funds. That needs to cover food, medicine, ammo, horse tack, general supplies, and emergency repairs. Then I take some and put it in savings. That's about 37 dollars and 28 cents for each bit. Pretty beautiful numbers, yeah? Above most folks’ budgets. We have it nice this month.” 

Pierce finished their thought. “But we don’t score every month.” 

“ _ Exactly. _ So sometimes I cut into those savings. I put the money back in the camp. I put my personal funds back into camp. I’ve been promising myself a new dress for the past four and a half years.” 

Pierce snorted. “Selfless. How expensive can a dress be?” 

“You ever seen a dress already tailored for a seven foot two woman with no breasts, Washington? If so, I’ll take fucking pointers.” 

“What if we got jobs?” Carlos interjected. 

He caught both their attention. They gave him peculiar looks, either surprised by his sudden confidence or perplexed by the idea.

"Easier said than done," Pierce started. He spoke carefully, and on his face it was written that he was already running each and every possibility. "Especially down here, especially for us." 

"Johnny and I tried it, once. He was shit at it, but the real problem was people kept recognizing us. We stayed in Michigan too long." 

"So we get jobs that can move with us, yeah?" Carlos stepped away from the door. He opened his arms, a careful gesture, and against his instinct he kept his head raised. "We start trapping. Selling hides and meat, use the bones for stews back in camp. I know how to hunt; I could show you how if you don't. We can take bounties, too, ey? No one hires a saint to catch a sinner, and all that." 

The Boss watched him a proud sort of wonder. It lingered for only a second, before they were stood with their hands on his shoulders and a grin on their face. 

“You’re a hell of a kid, Carlos,” they said. “You got one hell of a head on your shoulders.” 

He blinked. “You like the idea?” 

“Bounty hunting. It’s fuckin’ genius, Carlos. Who knows criminals better than us?” 

“How much money you think is in it?” Pierce came up behind them, glancing between the two of them as he buttoned up his shirt. 

“Average bounty is probably more than most banks keep in ‘em out here. We got 500 in the bank, right? A low bounty is probably 500 at least; go after the big bads and you’re lookin’ at a clean thousand.” Carlos shrugged as he said it, but his cheeks were burning with a new kind of pride. He liked the attention. He liked to be listened to. 

The Boss nodded. They chewed on their fingernail, squinting as they thought. “It’s kinda like going honest, but not at all, at the same time. We’d still needa use fake names. We’d make a lot of enemies. But none of that’s exactly  _ new _ .” They paused, and their face relaxed. “Johnny’d be good at it.” 

“One thing,” Pierce stopped them, a hand half-raised in the air, “How’re we just gonna walk into a sheriff’s office and ask for a bounty? We’re half-likely to get our own poster in our hand, and I’m willin’ to bet most folk down here wouldn’t glance twice at most of us before telling us to get the hell out of their office.” 

Carlos deflated, just a second of doubt, but before he could let another hope roll off his tongue, the Boss interrupted. “I know a guy,” they said. “He might be willing to help. Hell, he might be eager to.” 

There was a hesitance. Carlos had never considered that the Boss might have a whole network of connections. 

“Same  _ friend  _ that gave you the letters?” Pierce asked. He had his brow twitched, curious yet almost accusing. The Boss met his glance with a touch of exasperation, as if he had nothing to accuse them of. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” they replied. “It’s not like I’m making a whore of myself; don’t look at me like that. I have  _ friends _ , unlike  _ some _ of you.” 

Carlos stifled a laugh; Pierce was indignant. “That’s not what I’m sayin’, I’m just sayin’! One dude with all this information? How do you trust that?” 

“He ain’t a dude, Washington; he’s older than  _ you _ . And he ain't a city dweller. Much. Maybe. Shit.” 

“I ain’t old.” 

“You’re older than me.” 

“You’re  _ both  _ old,” Carlos finished for them. “Is this real, though? Are we gonna try it?” 

The Boss grinned at him; he felt an instinct to shy away from his excitement, but he couldn’t resist the draw of success and approval. He leaned into their grin with an insatiable curiosity for what he could be, eager to hear how their thoughts reflected him. 

"Not like we got anything to lose," they said. "I think you mighta given us our saving grace, Carlos." 

His posture straightened. He pressed his shoulders back and smiled, meeting the Boss's eye with certainty. "Thanks, Boss." 

Their steady hand met his shoulder, a firm grip that squeezed a bit. "You're a smart kid, you know? It'd be nice to see you have that confidence all the time." In the second they were there, suddenly they were gone again, already pushed past him and walking down the hall. "I gotta ride out. You tell the gang to stay here, and I'll be back in a few days. Maybe a little over a week. Don't do anything stupid without me." 

Pierce leaned around Carlos, sticking his head out into the hall. "Leave a damn note where you're going this time!" 

"Can't!" they called back.

They disappeared into their room, the door slammed shut, and Carlos blinked. "They can't?" 

Pierce sighed, rubbing his eyes with the palm of his hand. "Yeah, they-- they do that sometimes." He nudged Carlos's shoulder, a small grin appearing on his face. "Look at you, though, movin' up in the world. Don't come for my position, a'ight? I'm still tryna supplant Gat." 

Carlos laughed, though it was small and a tinge embarrassed. "I'm surprised they went for it." 

Pierce turned around, snatching his gun belt off the dresser and buckling it about his waist. "Why? It's a solid idea. Outlaws turned bounty hunters. Got a nice ring to it." 

"You don't think it's too hypocritical?" 

Pierce paused, quiet as he holstered his gun. "No," he decided, "I don't. There's people out there worse than us, you hear me? We rob and we kill, but we respect civilians best we can, huh? Never targeted a poor man or harassed a woman in my life. Personally, I see that as the difference between an outlaw and a criminal." 

Carlos twitched, thinking it over. "Outlaws break the law to help the common, criminals target the vulnerable?"

"Exactly. So we try to be outlaws, and we beat down the criminals." 

"Sounds nice." 

"Just gotta hope we're not blinded by our own optimism. C'mon, kid, get dressed. It's errands day." 

Carlos ducked his head down in a nod, lifting his weight off the crooked old door frame to shuffle around the room for his things. He traded the sweaty, stained, and dusty clothes of yesterday for the carefully packed shirt and jeans he’d coveted away for a day about town. The shirt was new, a purchase he'd made in the last town before they'd blown the bank vault and skipped out. 

He was a practical man, he felt, but he couldn't help himself from admiring the refined patterns he saw in the shop windows, and he'd indulged in a cotton shirt covered in intricate red paisley. 

It was a bold statement for him. 

He was dressed in minutes, and carrying his plate of beans and toast downstairs to join the others, only to bump into the Boss as they stepped in the opposite direction. 

They'd changed into riding pants and slung a bag full of camp gear over their shoulders. They smiled at him as they passed, heading for a back entrance they could quietly dip out without being seen. 

"I'll see you, Carlos," they said, "take care of the family while I'm gone." 

He blinked at them, a deep-seated frown on his face, though he wasn't sure why. "Boss?" He called, right as they opened the door onto the balcony. 

They stopped, stared at him, and waited. 

"You-- Are you sure you wanna go alone?" 

They give him a flippant wave of their hand. "Don't waste your worry on me. I can handle my own weight." 

With those words, they were gone into the dry, dusty morning, a figure descending the slats of creaky old stairs and taking a brisk walk down to the stable. Their horse, a sweet Belgian Draft named Luli, awaited them there, and Carlos bit back yet another wave of doubt and discomfort that insisted on plaguing him. 

Something just didn't feel right in the world, but he promised himself it was his nerves and the atmosphere of a lonely Texas town. 

He turned and went downstairs, joining the rest of the gang in the lobby of the inn, where the innkeep had carried over a tray of food from the saloon. Johnny was dealing him the cash for the food and the service, while Aisha, Shaundi, and Pierce already had sat to eat. Johnny parted from the desk to join them, noting Carlos and ushering him over with a casual wave, while the Innkeep stayed beside, toiling at his desk.

He noticed that there was no more meat left, and it looked like all the bacon had been given to Boss. If he were in a chipper mood, he might've laughed. 

They sat in wooden chairs by a dirt-stained window that watched over the street. There were people, he noted, but not many. They somehow all looked cold, even as the sun burnt them alive. He figured, that was just how people looked when their lives were falling apart. 

He couldn't tell if he sympathized with them or not. He thought about his own family, and decided he didn't. 

"Where's June?" 

Johnny's voice broke his train of thought. It took him a second to process that  _ June  _ meant  _ Boss _ , and he parted his lips to answer, but Pierce had already beat him there. 

"She's out on a ride. Be back in a few days." 

Johnny snorted, eyes locked accusingly out the window. "You know, last time she did that she got her ass blown to hell." 

Pierce's head flicked upwards, attention snared like a fish to a lure. "Whatchu mean?" he asked, usually snappy tone slowed and cautious. "She goes on rides all the time." 

Whatever information he hoped to glean, though, Johnny would not provide. With a sense of intentional obliviousness to the actual question being asked, he shrugged. "Those are small shit, Washington. If she left without saying anything to me, it's not small shit." He punctuated his point by shoving a spoonful of beans in his mouth. 

Pierce set down his fork. Before he could speak, he noted the lingering stare of the innkeep on the two of them, sighed with frustration, and returned to eating. 

"What do we do without her?" Shaundi sat with her elbows on the table and her hair down. Even on easy days, she declined to wear a proper dress, and sat spread-legged on the bench in a pair of men's jeans.

"Boring shit," Johnny admitted. He sounded discontent, like he was irked the Boss had not taken him with them, but when he pulled too hard on his posture, the stitches in his stomach resisted and stung, and he was forced to ease back down. He, or maybe Aisha, had procured an old cane for him to support himself with, but at current it was left propped across his knees. 

Despite his current setback, he dutifully tapped out a finger on the table as he listed off the day's chores. "We need food and stock. We need some tack. We need more ammo and gun oil. Today, we're fuckin' errand boys." 

Aisha gave a flippant wave of her hand at Johnny's insolence. "It's really not that bad, you know. It won't even take the whole day between the five of us. Johnny just loves to complain." 

"I resent that," he said, though his tone was placid. 

"Go to the stables and ask for some tack maintenance, ask how much longer they can keep the horses for. Buy yourself a new saddle if you're feelin' antsy," Pierce directed, idly pushing beans onto his toast. "Sh-- Hattie and Ms. Palmer can run food stock. Mr. Liu and I will find a gunsmith. Bound to be one still in business." 

Shaundi stifled a laugh at Pierce’s near slip of her name, but Carlos pulled a discontent face. "Man, I don't wanna go back to that creepy stables alone. That guy was weird." Carlos angled his head to spare a cautionary glance at the innkeep, and lowered his voice. "I don't like the way he looked at me." 

Pierce gave a slow nod as he chewed on bread crust. "Yeah, a'ight. Johnny, you mind runnin' the smith alone?" 

" _ Tch _ , 'course not; you watch the kid’s back. We ain't losin' someone to some fucking hillbilly in a no-name town. I’ve gotten kinda fond of havin’ him around." 

"Johnny, mind yourself," Aisha chided, "or you're gonna be the fool we lose to some hillbilly in a no-name town." 

Shaundi was busy with her baked beans, but paused for a moment and spoke, "Ms. Palmer can go with Johnny if ya want-- I don't think anyone will give me shit." 

“Oh, ‘preciate it, but I’m stronger runnin’ solo.” 

Aisha snorted at him, a slight roll of her eyes, before clearing her plate and setting the dish down on her lap. “Jackass.” 

The lobby felt dry and stuffy. The dust settled on the ground, disturbed only by their own footprints, looked like it had not been touched in months. Carlos scraped the edge of his boot along the floor, watching the schism it left behind. He never thought he would prefer camping out on the side of a river to being indoors, but this entire town left a horrible unease in him the minute he was around one of its locals. Even amongst the banter of friends, he felt like there were deep-boring stares breaking through the glass of the window, leaving burns on his back with each malicious glance. 

The sun was high and the weather was stifling hot; the heat rose up off the dry sand in thick waves that distorted their vision, and it was easy to daydream of cool, dark pools and mountain rivers. As they piled dirty dishes up and left them on the porch to be claimed again by the saloon, they all felt rather beaten down upon by the sun. Despite the slight vulnerability that came with it, Carlos felt grateful the Boss had already left town without the rest of them-- it meant they wouldn’t be doing much. 

Pierce set off for the stables. Brisk steps made his thin duster flare out behind him, though there was no wind to catch the tails. Carlos leapt to catch up, feeling shorter than usual as he took two steps for every one of Pierce's. 

"Washington, you really think it'll be days till the Boss is back? What're we supposed to do till then?" He tipped his hat back as he walked, sun in his eyes and heat on his face. 

"Whatever we want, kid," he almost laughed as he said it, but only barely. "We're a gang, yeah, but we're still  _ people _ , you know? We do our own shit sometimes." 

Carlos frowned at the obvious answer. "Good luck finding shit to do in this town." 

Pierce turned on his heel and walked backwards so he might watch Carlos as they headed down the street. "Then leave town." 

He stopped in his tracks, only to immediately bounce back into his brisk step. It had not actually occurred to him that he could do that. 

Pierce laughed at him, swinging back around to face the stables. "You're a good kid, man, but you get too caught up in it. Take a step back sometimes." 

Carlos shook his head. "Alright, sidewinder. Thanks for the advice." 

"You're welcome." Pierce spoke flatly, purposefully ignoring the sarcasm in Carlos's tone. "You race, tenderfoot? Johnny's outta the game, and I bet 5 bucks Clara can outrun Nena." 

"What! No way, man; Nena's the fastest trotter I've ever run-- You don't stand a chance!" 

He laughed, a large, side-slanted grin left on his face as he continued, "Prove it, rawheel! Those are big words!" 

He lurched forward to be at Pierce's side, grinned and gestured towards the stable. "Soon as these errands are over I'm taking you on, Washington." 

Pierce's grin spoke of a plan that was going exactly as he'd imagined. It was likely that he'd pestered Carlos with the specific intent of rising him out of such a self-inflicted tunnel, and just as likely that he'd pestered him in the hopes of having someone new to race. He liked games that were as much cleverness as they were skill and ability, and racing was an easy way to pass the time.

Upon approach, the stable hand was the same as before, with dull eyes that locked uncomfortably on both of their faces, one at a time. Unflinching, Pierce approached him as if nothing was strange about his mannerisms; though, Carlos's hand twitched restlessly and scratched at the worn leather of his old holster. He watched for a bit while Pierce made arrangements and purchased bulk packs of hay and tack replacement, before wandering around the stables thinking what he would purchase after Pierce paid for the necessities. 

Carlos approached Nena, standing in a stall, and pet her head. He cooed to her, bare hands brushing over her muzzle and under her chin. She was a pretty horse, he thought, and the only one he'd ever raised from a foal.

"¿Extrañas Nacogdoches, Nena?" he whispered, brushing back her pale mane. "¿Extrañas tus hermanas, ey? Extraño mis hermanos, y papá también. Pero voy a comprar un regalo para ti, bonita--" 

He was cut off by a sudden tight grip on his bicep, a warning squeeze that made him leap to the side, free hand scrambling for his pistol, ready to draw-- 

But it was only Pierce. 

" _ Chingada madre, ese, me has asustado-- _ "

"Shut up." Pierce's gaze was not on him, eyes locked on the horizon. Carlos stiffened, dropped his irritation, and followed his glance. He saw a gaggle of rough young men, dusty from the trail, with guns on their belts and disdain in their eyes. They were tying up their horses, not yet privy to the men watching them. 

Carlos frowned. "Some fuckin'  _ gringos _ , huh?" 

"Yeah, some fuckin' gringos-- always bad news. 'Cept I recognize that one." He gestured loosely to a blond in the middle, a scraggly man with mud on his jacket. "Boss and I chased him outta camp. Those were the gunshots yesterday morning, remember?" 

The metallic bangs of a gun firing and wet splats of bullets hitting mud ricocheted around his sleep-soaked memory. More accurately, he remembered a pissed and stressed out Boss standing in the middle of camp, rifle in one hand and clutched blanket in the other, demanding camp be packed up and moved. 

"Bounty hunters," Carlos said. 

"Bet they've got our posters in their satchels." 

"So…" he began, only to trail off, "Whatta we do, Washington?" 

"Nuh uh, not that." He shook his head once, a firm dissuasion. "Don't say my name,  _ Mendleton _ , less you're callin' me Titian." 

" _ That's a stupid fake name _ ," he whispered. 

Pierce considered punching him. "It was a  _ joke _ . Can you focus?"

" _ What do we do _ ?" he repeated. "Boss is gone--" 

"Turn around," Pierce interrupted him, gripping his arm once again and swiveling around. "Listen, I think we're stuck." 

Carlos turned his face up to look at him and was taken aback at the frustration etched onto his usually cool face. "You think?" 

"Think about it-- we shoot 'em out, we get exposed and run outta town. Johnny's in no condition to fight anyway. We sit around like ducks, we probably get shot. They might start talkin' to folks in town, askin' what strangers they've seen. We leave, Boss might come back to a trap and no backup." 

Carlos was quiet for a minute, sorting each option into its own box. He thought each one out, imagining each chance, and found his fingers twitching worse than before. "I think--" 

He didn't get a chance to finish. The stable hand appeared behind them, twanged voice breaking into their conversation. 

"How many nights you said you wanted? I got these new boys askin' for stalls, an' I only house so many for so long." 

Pierce blinked, only a half-second of recovery, before he was back in his game. "Little over a week. We're waitin' on a friend." 

The stable hand considered it with a slow churn of his jaw. In a sudden move, he spit a glob of tobacco on the dust-coated floor. "A'ight, then. I'll tell them boys they gotta move soon." 

"Thank you kindly." 

"First come, first serve; word of gospel, that is." 

The stable hand turned and walked back to the rough men, shambling on his old, bowed legs. He called to the men, and the two of them watched carefully. 

"Ain't so bad for an old redneck," Pierce mumbled. "Expected to get our shit tossed out--  _ anyway _ ," he turned back to Carlos. "I'm willin' to bet, you, Shaundi, and Aisha are the safest right now. I needa go get Johnny--" 

" _ Hey!  _ Fellers! Couldn’t help but see ya-- Nice shirt, cowpoke. You travelers?" 

A chill ran down both their spines, the immediate anxiety of a new voice demanding their attention rattling their already shaken bones. Carlos swelled over with regret about his  _ statement piece _ of a red shirt, eyes flicking to the side to see the speaker. It was one of the newcome bounty hunters; a cigarette hanging between his lips and the blond Pierce had recognized a ways behind him. 

Pierce, ever the more collected, spoke first. "Frontiersmen. Takin' our families out west. You all?" 

The man grinned. His teeth were dirty and stained, his lips dry and cracked. Carlos ran his tongue over his teeth without thinking, and wondered if his grin ever looked the same. "Fortune seekers!" he laughed. "Simply ridin' our way to women and song." 

Pierce and Carlos forced matching grins. "Sounds nice," Pierce spoke, drawing his hands up to rest carefully on his hips. His pinkie finger tapped the leather of his gun belt. "You must not be stayin' long." 

"Oh, 'fraid not! Drink, game, and move on if there's nothin' to see." He took the cigarette from the corner of his lips and dropped it onto the floor, crushing it under his boot. "Say, fellers, you wouldn't'a happen ta see a big, an' I mean  _ big _ , eastern-lookin' fellow with one eye, huh?" 

"Nah, sir, that sounds a queer one. Reckon I'd remember a fella like that." Pierce's carefully casual speech mimicked the Texan rapport of the bounty hunter's, though he added a slower draw to each syllable, so as not to match his excitement. "He do ya wrong?" 

"Not me, but some folks up northeast. Plenty mad about it. Take it he murdered many a fancy businessman or politician, tryna,  _ reclaim the city,  _ or some other communist nonsense." 

"Sounds a hellion." 

He gave a solemn nod. "The crimes they spoke of make a good man shudder-- moral depravity, I say." He pointed at Carlos and practically laughed. "Young man like you oughta be extra careful, till we got him in binds." 

Carlos stiffened, his back straight, as he tried to swallow the implication. His teeth snapped shut around a cruel word, an insult desperate to be hurled. 

"This town got no one in it but the locals and our caravan," Pierce interrupted, and Carlos was thankful for his steady voice as his own anger simmered. "I think whoever you're lookin' for musta moved on." 

The man shrugged. "Shame." Then looked back to Carlos, and chided, "You ain't talk much, do ya?" 

"I ain't got a damn thing to say," he almost spat. 

The bounty hunter laughed, shook his head, and turned on his heel. "See y'all fellas later, then. Keep an eye out and holler if ya need us. Supposedly, the feller’s got some kinda gang with him. Best stayin’ safe now." 

They watched him go, returning to his group, and in a second Pierce was strutting back to the hotel. Carlos was nearly frozen, hand gripping the handle of his gun before he even realized it was there. He broke into a sudden sprint, chasing after Pierce as he cut through the burning heat. 

Out in the sun, the anxiety felt worse. 

"We're gonna murder those fools, right?" He breathed, his words almost lost. "We're gonna fuckin' kill them?" 

Pierce's face was set in hard-cast stone. He was burning up inside; it was obvious. Still, he clenched his jaw and ground down his teeth, and forced out, " _ No. _ " 

Carlos blinked. 

"We  _ can't _ , Carlos; not until the Boss gets back. How's Hsin-hung supposed to find us if we have to skip town? We can't get separated." 

He blinked again. Confusion and anger and hatred and disbelief and understanding and resignation and fury and indignation all tangled up inside of him, a nasty mess he couldn't put into words. 

"You heard what he said about them." 

"I did." 

"He thinks the Boss is some kinda-- some kinda predator." 

"They're not. Not like that." 

Carlos swallowed, thick and dry. "What do we do?" 

Pierce turned and kept walking. "We wait." 

The demand alone felt like a wound in his heart. He wanted to punish the cowboy for his cruelty and insolence; he wanted to make him suffer for the slander he spoke. He could tell from his tight shoulders and feverish walk that Pierce wanted just the same. He followed after him, burning up inside, furious-- and then Pierce stopped. 

He stood still in the street, staring straight ahead, fingers curled tight into infuriated fists, before he pivoted on his heel and returned to the stable’s door. 

“ _ What _ ,” Carlos breathed, “ _ Washington-- _ What the hell--?” 

“There’s somethin’ we can do, Carlos. There’s somethin’ we can do.” 

“ _ What? _ ” 

“We’re gonna have a race.” 


	8. Interlude 3

Stilwater MA

July 20th, 1895 

To Nacogdoches, TX 

Carlitos, 

I wish I could write you and tell you good things. I want this letter to open with something fantastic, something that'll make your week. I wish I could tell you that I'm coming home soon, or that I met the love of my life, or that I know how to fix everything. 

That makes me sound really sad, huh? Like a poet or something? I'll be honest, I'm writing you instead of papa because I'm a little bit ashamed of what I've done. Besides, he'd read the letter to mama, and she'd come up here and kill me. 

How are the others doing? Is Víctor gonna finish school? Tell him it's okay if he doesn't, no matter what mama says. 

I miss you all a lot. I'm starting to feel on edge. This city is bad, Carlos. I thought nothing could be worse than home, then I had to leave. The city is hateful. People always talk about how much better the north is, but it's like everything's the same, it's just happening behind your back instead of to your face. I miss home. I miss lobbing mud at the politicians with you. 

Stilwater's got a lot of bad people in it. It's so bad everyone's decided you gotta fight fire with fire just to survive. It's honorable to watch these people fight. Like nothing can take them down, not forever. 

I joined up with some guys calling themselves the 3rd Street Saints. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. They're a gang, I guess, outta the Row, lead by this Catholic priest. His church is a mess, but it's comforting being in there. Listening to him speak makes me feel like I have a purpose, something more than hauling fish and getting kicked around by business owners. Listening to him talk, you'd think I could change the world single handedly. 

He's got these lieutenants; one's this real mean guy from Korea (never heard of it before. one of the other guys had to explain it to me. embarrassing.) everything he says just sounds angry, but he's actually pretty easy to get along with. I haven't talked to him much. His name is Ji-hoon, I heard, but everyone just calls him Johnny. Or Gat. I think mostly people call him Gat. 

Another is named Dexter. He's got a reputation, but I can't figure out what the hell it is. He kinda gives me the shakes. I can't tell if he's good or bad. Being in the same room as him gets kinda stressful, but maybe I'm the crazy one. 

Another is this white guy that always looks like he's a heart attack away from spending the rest of his life in a bed. He smokes like a furnace and I think he's been stressed since he was born. He's nice, though, which surprises a lot of people (including me). Most the gang aren't white. Mostly black, like Julius (the priest) and Dexter. Or Hispanic, like us. Some Asian, too. I've seen a few natives. Most the whites in the city live in the north districts. Some of them are real poor, but most aren't. The poor ones join the gang. Maybe that's where they found this guy. 

I guess they had a <strike>girl</strike> woman that was running as a lieutenant, too. Her name was Lin. I never saw her, but I heard she got murdered by Joseph Sharp, this rich asshole who wants the city under his thumb, or something. He runs this other gang we've been fighting, a bunch of horse-racing well-to-do pricks from the North districts. They've got a heavy hand in Chinatown, too, but not for long, now. 

Julius has this golden boy that kinda makes me think of you. He doesn't look like you, but he kinda acts like you. He's really quiet, and he never looks at people when they speak to him unless he really has to. You do that. In a different way, but you do that. Everyone makes jokes that he's actually a ghost that's haunting the row, trying to get revenge for his death or something, because no one ever knows where he's at or where to find him, but he always shows up right when he's needed. Like he knows when something is about to happen. 

He's real good, even if he's strange. He puts up with a lot. He's not much older than you. Protects the other gangsters with a <strike>fever </strike>fervor. The lawmen really hate him. Call him a deplorable and a reprobate. He's real notorious. The pinkertons have been coming by lately, and I think they want him most of all. Maybe because arresting a priest looks bad. 

I hope I raised you better than a lawman, Carlos. I like to think I'd taught you to be a person who fights on the right side of history. I hope I'd taught you to fight at all. 

Things are getting heavy, and I'm trying. I'm scared, and I've started questioning myself, but I think I'm doing the right thing. I don't know why I'm telling you all this. I think I just need to tell someone. I really feel like I've found a second family in the Saints, but what's the point of telling people things they already know? 

If I ever stop writing, or you worry I'm missing, maybe you could find the Saints. Maybe they could tell you what happened, or where I am. We take care of our own. 

I promise I'll be safe. Take care of Mama, and Papa, and Víctor and Neto and Lalo. I'll write them too, eventually. Everyone up here gets real jealous when I tell them I've had four brothers, and all of them lived. I guess infant sickness is common in the cities. Makes our family feel special. I'm glad I got to have you as a brother. 

Take care, Carlos. Be good to our family. Tell them I miss them. 

Héctor 


	9. The Outlaw's Return

Smoke was more common than oxygen in the dimly lit city; even with the blue night sky to obscure the constant stream of smog filtering away from the factory towers, they could smell the unnatural, coal-tinged scent and feel it burn their lungs. It was a nostalgic feeling, reminiscent of home. It was terrible. 

Hsin-hung had been riding southeast for three days with little breaks, only to reach the despair-scented city well after nightfall. Their mare now rested comfortably in the stables at the edge of town, and the bulk of their possessions sat locked away in a second floor hotel room, above a desperate bar in the Chinatown district.

They walked down the street in a blue cotton dress that billowed about their ankles and a heavy black duster, all too aware of the stares they garnered from the few folks brave enough or mean enough to remain out on the street after sundown. Their rifle was slung about their back, their pistol on their hip, and their knife in their boot. 

It was true that they hated the city, and walked its streets with more than a healthy amount of suspicion. They had once thought Stilwater was as bad as things could get, but the rest of the world was much worse than imagined. 

They dreamed of an isolated home in Colorado, freedom and fresh air, but trudged through slimy Texas streets with a gun in their hand and a sharp edge in the gleam of their eye. 

Such is life.  _ Such is life.  _

The streets were lit in a hazy orange glow, the occasional horse passing them by or the rare trolley rumbling past. They stuck close to the gas lanterns, desperately trying to recall the right path, but the streets swung wildly in all sorts of directions, without much rhyme or reason to them, it seemed. The clutter of brick buildings and tight streets and litter and smoke made their head swim a bit, and they forced themself to remember that they were  _ not in Stilwater _ , and this was  _ not their Little Shanghai _ , and a left at the street corner would not take them to the water, and they would not see the old apartments they grew up in, and they would  _ not _ follow the street east and up through the factories to reach the police station. 

Troy had given them his address here, once, what felt like a long time ago, and they had to hope they had the numbers correct. They stopped for directions three separate times, only to learn at the third time that  _ Cassius Street  _ was split into  _ North  _ and  _ South _ , and the numbers  _ repeated  _ on either end. 

Not even Stilwater was that backwards. They decided they really did hate this city.  _ What was it called?  _ San Caterina. They hated San Caterina. 

They decided to try the North end first, and were greeted by an exhausted mother with a baby clinging to her breast and children clattering away in her living room. Her eyes cried for help, but all she told them was that she didn’t know of a  _ Troy Bradshaw  _ anywhere in this building. 

“But if you find him,” She breathed, laboring just to speak a full sentence, “Give him a good sock for all us that got ditched by no-good husbands.” 

They considered telling her they weren’t a scorned lover looking for revenge. “I will,” they said instead, “I’ll punch him twice for you.” 

She closed the door. They took five dollars from the 21 they had in their coat, and stuck it into her mail slot. 

It must have been past ten by the time they found the apartment building on South Cassius, squirreled away behind stone walls and massive trees, up the stairs and hidden behind unmarked doors. The city was fairly quiet in this part, finally lulled to sleep, but even that peace was broken by the occasional metallic howl of a trolley or scream of a late-night train. They could hear muffled speech behind a few doors, but the one they needed was silent. 

They knocked gently at first, got no answer, and started banging on the door. 

“ _ Fuck--  _ Who the  _ hell-- _ Oh, Jesus.” Troy was disheveled and tired, in his night clothes and dark bags under his eyes that spoke of restless nights and long days. His hand met his face the moment he identified the bastard disturbing his peace, and all the Boss could do was smile blithely at him. 

"Howdy," they greeted, "Please, restrain your excitement." 

" _ What  _ are you doing here?" 

"Officially? I'm here to punch you on behalf of all women abandoned by no-good husbands. I'm pregnant, Troy, and it's yours." 

There was a question in his eyes, a curiousity if anyone else in the world was routinely harassed by a giant, androgynous outlaw with a crude sense of humor. His brow knit together, an incredulous glare, before a flat voice returned their joke, "I'm a proud virgin." 

"Mm. Must be your evil twin brother I'm looking for." 

"Sounds like it, huh? Funny joke you're playing, kid." 

"The real joke is that you could be a virgin with such a seductive mustache," they chided, sliding past him to enter his apartment without permission. It was dark inside, not a window on the back wall to face the moon, nor a lantern still lit near his unmade bed. They perched on the table pushed up against the left wall, ignoring the paper files crunching under their weight, and set their rifle to lean against the wall. 

Troy shut the door behind them, no protest to be found against their insolence. He rubbed at his head, slowly waking with each movement. "Move your ass," he mumbled, pulling a match from the drawer and striking it against his thumbnail. In a moment, the lantern next to them was lit, and the two of them were flooded in the immediate gaze of a burning yellow light. It cast deep, dramatic shadows across the small room, and into the tinier kitchen across the archway, but it was good enough to see in. 

They pulled a pack of cigarettes from their jacket, and he lit it for them as they placed it between their lips. Expectantly, he put out a hand, and they gave him one without reserve. 

He waved out the match after successfully igniting his cigarette, and sat down across from them. Balanced on the twin bed, he leaned back just enough so his shoulders pressed into the cool plaster of the wall. "So," he began, "you want somethin', huh?" 

“Maybe,” they shrugged, taking a long, lingering drag off their smoke, “how do you know I don’t just wanna talk?” They punctuated their question by billowing hot gray smoke into the room, letting it curl around their hand and drift into the ceiling. 

He laughed a bit, watching them wave their hand through the lazy smoke. “ _ Sure _ , yeah,  _ you miss me _ . I buy it.” 

They smiled at him, and lifted themself up to sit at the very back of the table. Even still, their boots brushed against the wood floor as they gently swung their legs at the knee. “Maybe I do. You can’t prove it either way.” 

Troy took a drag off his cigarette and blew all the smoke out in a pointed huff. “You come all this way just to mess with me and crush my papers under your ass? Or did you have a point?” 

“I have a point,” they promised. They flicked a bout of ash into the tray sat next to them. “There’s this kid in the gang, now-- real young guy, real earnest-- he had this idea, to help us along. We’re gonna start picking up bounties.” 

Troy’s eyebrows flashed upwards, curious. He knocked his chin back, squinting an eye at them. "I get it; not a bad plan. I mean, it's a bit of community service, if you think about it too hard-- but I can get where he saw the money in it. Not bad." He paused, sucked on the end of his cigarette, and exhaled a bit of smoke. "You said a kid came up with this plan?" 

"Yeah, I mean-- older than I was when we met, but he's only 19." 

"Oh, Christ, Xav, you're only 23--  _ you _ don't get to call him a kid." 

" _ Please _ , I'm as ageless and infinite as the mountains." They put up their hands in a dramatic gesture, palms outwards and long fingers splayed, and their fake wedding ring glinted in the light of the lantern. Their cigarette dangled from their lips and a line of smoke danced around their face. "I don't use that name anymore, either.  _ Xavier _ has been sacrificed to the pinkertons-- I'm back to just being Hsin-hung." 

Troy nearly groaned as he vaulted himself forward in a tired, achingly slow pace, the day’s work obviously wearing on him, extending a long arm to tap his ash out into the tray. "Sorry, habit. What's that new alias of yours? Judy?" 

"June." 

"Right, right-- you know, I never got what was up with you and your  _ aliases _ . You gotta realize how much a pain in the ass it is to keep track of 15 different names, yeah?" He fell back into the sunken bed spot, head against the wall and painted dark blue in the shadows of the lantern. 

"I'm just trying to keep my family safe, Troy. And if I gotta be 15 different people to do that? So be it." The hot cigarette smoke was making the room stuffy, and they unbuttoned their jacket as they spoke, not meeting Troy's eye. There was a brief pause, which they used to peel off the stiff fabric and fold it over in their lap. 

Troy sighed. "You know, I ain't even met your new boys. Tell me they ain't half as dysfunctional as our bunch was." 

They laughed a little bit, under their breath, but shook their head. "Well, Pierce kinda reminds me of Dex, a bit-- smart, hot, something to prove; but, he's kinder than Dex. Not as self-centered." 

"That's nice-- sorry, did you just say  _ hot _ ? Tell me you didn't just say  _ hot-- _ " 

" _ No! _ Fuck! I meant, like--  _ hot-headed _ ,  _ fiery _ , you know? Jesus, Bradshaw!" 

He snickered out a laugh, a steady build up of elevating bursts, squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. " _ Sorry,  _ sorry, Christ, didn't mean to-- I was scared for a moment you were pitching tents for  _ Dex _ of all people-- Not my business. Carry on. Please." He cracked still as he said it, rubbing at the corner of his eye with the side of his hand. "I'm sure your new guy is all sunshine and daisies, yeah? Real one to stroke to." 

" _ Bastard _ ," they tried to swear, malice lost in their own laughter. "Here I was-- gonna say you might like him, or get along, at least. He's dry like you." 

"Right, course, cause that matters so much to you-- I'm sure you spend all night admiring his  _ quips. _ " 

"Shut up!" They clapped their hands together as they rocked backwards, buckling over in a laugh. "Fuck, you always were such an ass-- used to be better at hiding it!" 

He shrugged, a grin still on his lips. "I've gotten sloppy in my old age, what can I say." 

" _ Old _ . You're 33." 

"That's old." 

They exchanged their burnt out stub for a fresh cigarette, and tossed him a new one of his own. "I'm beginning to feel old," they admitted, cheery grin slipping into something softer. "I'm trying to take care of all these people, fix our lives-- I wake up every day and my body aches so bad I think I'm dying." 

His merriment faded into a quiet understanding, tired eyes staring out into the warm glow of the lantern and the careful hand that rested beside it. "You kinda make me think of a mother hen, you know that? Cluckin' around, tryna shove everything to safety in your breast. Maybe that's why we get along-- we both think we can fix shit that ain't meant to be fixed." 

They snorted. "You're gettin' cynical, Troy. Maybe you  _ are _ old." 

"Compared to your gang of 19 year olds, maybe." 

" _ Hey _ ," they warned, blowing smoke out of their nose, "Only two of 'em are 19. You know Johnny and Eesh; they're both 27 now. Pierce is 28-- got a permanent case of being the  _ eldest _ , too-- Shaundi and Carlos, well, they're good kids. You liked Carlos's plan. Nasty killers already, but genuine. Just kids that got dragged along in a world that doesn't want kindness anymore." 

Troy chewed on his lip with a meager noise of acknowledgement. "You make me wanna knock back some whiskey when you start spittin' philosophy like that." 

"Then take a girl out, Bradshaw; we'll waste away in a saloon together." 

He snorted, bringing his cigarette to his lips as he eyed their poker face. "I'm too tired for that, you know? Can’t throw it down like we used to.” 

“Quitter’s talk.” 

He laughed, took a long drag off his cigarette, and stood with an exaggerated effort. “If there’s a bounty on you out here, you better  _ warn  _ me before I run around getting  _ seen  _ with you and shit-- I’m not tryna get my ass dragged around by the pigs tonight, you hear? The  _ Pinkerton Detective Agency  _ already regrets hiring me; I’m not sure I wanna dance around provin’ their point  _ quite  _ yet.” He took another puff. “But, I mean, if it happens, fuck those guys, anyhow.” 

They snorted, hopped off the table and brushed away the cigarette ash. “Relax, when I'm out as June I don't like to get too loud-- kinda like the old days." 

He grimaced, an adverse reaction just at the thought of their silence. “ _ Ugh _ , I mean, you do what you gotta, but— I always hated that. It’s awkward, y’know? I sit there talking off like an ass and you just stare at me with those damn eyeballs—  _ speakin’ of _ , how’s the fakey?” 

They popped out their glass eye and turned it over between their thumb and index finger, watching it reflect in the light. “Same as ever.” 

Troy gave a low hum, stretching out his back as they put their prosthetic back into place. “I, uh— listen, I know you’re not here to talk about the past,  _ and I get if you don’t wanna bring it up _ , but, we never actually—” he paused and rethought his words, dropped his arms back to his sides, and continued, “I never did figure out how you lost the eye, really. No one fuckin’ talked about it— ‘side from the  _ obvious _ , of course.” 

Their lips parted a touch, the beginning of a syllable lost to their complicated thoughts. “Julius sent me in there alone,” they started, each word chosen carefully and deliberately, yet pitifully and selfishly. “I mean, fuck, you know that— it was dark. I don’t remember a lot of it. When the place  _ blew _ , well— I smashed my head on the brick, and there was glass, and the whole place—” they stopped, a rough intake of breath that scrape their dried out throat, and they mumbled in a rough voice, “You saw the wreckage. I thought it was just a normal job, you know? A little more  _ diplomatic  _ than where I usually got sent, but, still just a job. Break a politician. Get him under our boot.” 

Troy didn’t respond right away. He lingered in a half-nod, brow knit together as he watched their face. He knew the circumstance, but not the specifics.

“It was the windows,” they finally concluded, with a heavy sigh. “The windows shattered, and I was just— I was so full of  _ shards _ — I kept losing consciousness, so I only remember pieces, but I was— I thought my body was in a thousand parts. I thought I was being shredded, and burned alive, and— and then I realized— I realized I couldn’t  _ see _ . There was fucking  _ glass  _ embedded in my  _ eye _ , and when I tried to pull it out, I made it so much worse.” Their breath caught, and the palm of their hand shot to their eye in a flinch to hide the gloss rising up and threatening to spill over. They forced a tight, empty grin; they tried to play it all off like another dreary fact of life. “I was so scared, Troy. Sometimes I start to fall asleep and I can feel all of it again, and I think, this time, I’m  _ gonna  _ die." 

He hesitated, cigarette hanging between his lips and hands stiff in the air. There was a silence and an uncertainty, an inability to predict the right answer. He lowered his hands, slowly and quietly, and let a deep breath roll through his chest. "Listen, I'm-- I'm sorry I asked. Thirst for knowledge never came without consequence, huh?” 

“Don’t apologize ‘cause the answer wasn’t sweet. You deserve to know.” 

Despite himself, a small, empty laugh passed his lips as he remembered a conversation they’d had years ago; he remembered them young and infuriated, crying, screaming,  _ “I deserve to know! I deserve to!”  _

Both of them had grown and changed significantly; like the world kept evolving and spinning and refusing to sit still, the two of them had been aged against their will. Forever refused peace and ease, they found themself very different people than they'd once been; but, they could always see the traces of the past in one another. Maybe to Troy, the Boss would always be a reckless kid with nothing to lose, and maybe to the Boss, Troy would always be the one that waited for them to speak back. 

"That whole scene-- it was a lot.  _ Hell _ , I had all the surveillance, all the papers, and I still can't make sense of that shit sometimes." He tapped his finger against his own face, before taking out his cigarette and letting it burn itself out between his fingers. "I'm still amazed you survived it--  _ though _ , you read the letters. It's almost like Julius planned it that way." 

"I don't buy that," they nearly snapped. It wasn't aggressive, but it was too quick, like they'd been waiting for a chance to say it. "I don't think he wanted me to survive. He wanted me to fucking martyr myself for his cause. But he cares too much about making it seem like everything went according to  _ him _ \-- so that means he meant for me to live, the whole time. That's what I think." 

Troy opened the bureau to get dressed. "You think?" 

"I know." 

"I'm amazed you haven't killed him yet." 

They gave a deep sigh. It was hard to tell in the dramatic light, and it wasn't easy to subtly examine their face while pulling on a pair of jeans, but their nose and eyes looked ruddy still. For all their bravado, they were an intense person, and their emotions always read loud and clear on their face whether they noticed it or not. 

"Haven't had time," they settled on. "I wonder if he's pissed I took Johnny with me." 

"I think he's just happy not to have Gat on his trail," Troy snorted. "Remember when that motherfucker tried to kill me? Not a day in the goddamn park." 

"That why you'll only meet me after dark?" An edge of dry humor had crept into their voice, and Troy rolled his eyes already as he buttoned up his shirt. "Or is it because your wife doesn't know?" 

He scoffed. "Definitely the wife thing-- I’m a prized flower, you hear? Barely allowed outta the house by my lovin’ miss. Or maybe it’s the mountains of bullshit the Pinkertons are piling on that keeps me in. Can’t remember." 

"You can still leave. Come ride with us." 

"I think you missed the part-- sorry, lemme remind you,  _ Johnny tried to kill me?  _ Yeah, not great for team morale. Gat and I in the same room don't mix no more." 

They sighed and slinked over to the door. They lopped their jacket over their arm, slung their rifle over their back, and watched him tug on his own. "Thanks for depressing me. Now I don't even wanna drink anymore." 

“What, like I  _ asked  _ Johnny to pistol whip me?” 

"Oh,  _ let's not start on all that _ , Troy. Neither of us want that conversation." 

He frowned. 

"But that's not what I meant. You know what I meant— whatever, c’mon. Walk me back to my hotel like a gentleman. Being around you makes me flip through 10 different emotions a minute and now I'm tired.” 

Troy relented, with a slight, “Never thought I’d see you actually go back on a drink,” before opening the door for them as they stepped out into the night. A breeze had picked up, though it was hard to find it amongst the tall buildings. Only the treetops waved, eager to reach past their concrete hell, and once they'd descended the stairs and hit the streets, the air felt just as stagnant as it had inside Troy's smokey apartment. They turned onto the quiet, lantern-lit avenue, and began a casual pace back into the slummier parts of town.

"Skippin' back three topics and  _ avoiding conflict _ , let's talk bounties. Why'd you come to me with your kid— uh,  _ Carlos—  _ Carlos's plan?" 

“Oh!” They straightened up a bit, snapping open their fan before they finished their thought. “Fuck, you distracted me. The long and short of it is that I need your help getting the bounties. Pierce pointed out, down here most of our  _ family  _ would get turned out without a second glance, and even if we were allowed  _ in  _ the sheriff’s office, not fond of the idea of getting our own posters in our hands.” 

“ _ Ah _ , I get it. You want me to funnel the good bounties to you, so you can take ‘em risk free.” 

They grinned. “I knew you’d understand.” 

“Hey,  _ hey _ , just cause I get it doesn’t mean I like it— I can’t just snatch bounty posters and squirrel ‘em away without cause,  _ especially  _ not the big ones— I’m assumin’ you want the big ones— ‘cause someone’ll notice that I’m takin’ all the damn things eventually. We needa run a front on this, okay? Which of your boys has got the smallest bounty? Preferably only wanted  _ alive _ —”

He fell quiet as they passed a group of men bunched up on the edge of an alleyway. They were rolling dice, but their eyes flicked up to watch as the two passed. Hsin-hung tucked their arm into Troy’s. He accepted the gesture.

“Carlos,” Hsin-hung continued once they hit the empty street corner. “He’s only wanted in one county, a ways south-southeast of here. It’s about, one thousand, I think, for illegally loaning money and killing some small-time politicians in a duel. Maybe some other stuff? I never pressed him too hard on it.” 

Troy lead them across the street in the proper fashion. “Inconspicuous looking? No big scars or tattoos? How’s he dress?” 

“He’s got art on him, but it’s easy to cover with a sleeve. No scars. Dresses like a pretty average vaquero, man; looks like any ranch hand this side of the river. Short kid. Slight, got some muscle, keeps his hair short. Best I can figure, the only attention he might get is for being too young to be a bounty hunter."

"Even that," Troy began, "won't get  _ much  _ of a rise. The hunters get younger every year." 

They made a low noise as they turned the corner. Troy was taking them down a much more efficient path than the one they’d taken alone, and down the street, lights poured out of slated windows and open doors to be accompanied by music and laughter and jeers. The city felt much more alive, down here, but even then, the streets remained relatively empty as people packed into bars and dance halls and old hotels or bunched into groups under the streetlights. They bundled up their skirt in their gloved fist as they walked, refusing to let the fabric glimpse the grimy concrete.

“So we have a deal?” they asked. “I’ll arrange with Carlos to come be our face, you give him the bounties, we make you a  _ very  _ effective ranger.” 

“One more thing.” 

“Shoot.” 

“I’ll need you to stick close to San Caterina— can’t just go on full-day rides or longer every time I wanna let you guys know there’s a new poster up. There’s an old town half a day’s ride south of here; folk in these parts call it  _ Drygrass _ , on account of it being  _ all dried up. _ Railroad tracks skipped around it when they were bein’ built, and now all the people are gone. Just some empty husks and maybe some squatters. Imagine your lot could sneak right in.” 

“Assumin’ the squatters aren’t territorial.” 

“Oh,  _ well _ , probably. But that’s your problem.” 

They shoved their shoulder into his side. “Thanks. Great help. You’re fantastic.” 

“ _ You’re welcome _ ,” he said, an unwanted grin cracking across his face. “Listen, the town’s big enough you can probably move in without anyone realizing you’re there, assumin’ you stay quiet. I can’t tell you guys what to do, just like I can’t predict if a squatter is gonna stab you in your sleep or welcome you into his hovel. I’ve been down there  _ once _ , and it was ‘cause some bandits had holed up in there and kidnapped a girl from the edge of the city—  _ those fools are dead now, so _ — You’ve got no reason to think any others there won’t enact a  _ live and let live  _ philosophy.” 

“Honorable,” they snorted. 

“No one ever said avoiding conflict doesn't cost your conscience.” 

They nodded slightly, a sort of resignation to the fact plain on their face. "So every so often you ride down  _ for leisure _ , or to  _ check on a lead _ , or  _ whatever  _ you rangers do, tell me you got a poster up, and Carlos comes sauntering in like a timely stranger and takes the bounty." 

"Bullseye. The alternative is keeping your more, uh,  _ anonymous  _ members up in the city, and we'll establish an  _ acquaintance,  _ but that's only if you're willin' to keep the gang split." 

"I don't mind much if the kid wants to stay in town and deal with you himself, but I'm gonna be an old bitch about it and make him pay his own room. The gang is savin' up, and all that." 

Troy laughed a bit, a loose shake of his head. “Fair enough. Not my business.” 

“Speakin’ of your business--  _ I haven’t actually told Johnny I’m still talking to you _ .” 

“Oh,  _ hell,  _ Hsin-hung--” 

“ _ Hey. _ We’re in public.” 

“ _ Fuck _ . June, a’ight, listen to me-- Jesus Christ, how are you gonna play that? You think  _ anonymous source  _ is gonna stand while he’s half a day away, and the rest of your damn crew gets friendly? I’ll have a gun up my ass before I can say  _ Howdy, Johnny, I’m in Texas _ .” 

They stifled an inopportune laugh, not quite in the mood yet to draw Troy’s ire. "Hell, he knows you’re in Texas, just--  _ well.  _ Not that we keep in touch.” 

“Bad news, kid: you’re gonna have to fuckin’ tell him.” 

“ _ No shit. _ ” 

“Then  _ do  _ it.” 

They squeezed their fingers into the flesh of his upper arm, harmless but irksome, their nails just long enough to pinch. He didn't flinch.

" _ Hey _ , I'm not happy about it either-- I'm the one that's probably gonna get shot at, here. I'm just sayin' it's better it comes from you. He  _ likes  _ you." 

"Coward," they said, a heavy sigh sloughing off their shoulders. "It'll be alright. I'll  _ make  _ it alright. I'll get Aisha to stand next to me when I tell him." 

He raised his brows. "They're still together." 

" _ They are _ . Makes me sick how happy they are. Appalling." 

"What a supportive friend you are. Warms the heart." 

They laughed a bit, letting their posture relax. The street was flat and lacking in human sound as it twisted back around into Chinatown. The clangs of trolleys pulling into the nearby station, snuffles and clops of horses on cobblestone streets, and the mechanic whir of industry slowly settling down were the only music to accompany them. The air was still smoky, likely never to be clean, but the chill of late night had finally set in. Between it all, the entire city started to feel like a piece of machinery. It wasn’t poetic, or beautiful, or endearing, but it was familiar. 

They carried on past the shops and apartments, the sky decorated by more laundry lines than stars, and for a while there was a peaceful silence between them reminiscent of the long rides through Stilwater they'd once taken. On horseback, over the wood-slatted roads and on muddy dirt trails, everything had felt much less convoluted; everything had been one foot in front of the other, one more step forward, until everything came crashing down. 

Now, of course, they were in  _ San Caterina _ , a city similar but different, in a state far far away. In San Caterina, there were no docks, no houses on stilts crouching over the lake, no fish boats, no Westside Rollers, no church with Julius at the pulpit, no Carnales, no purple sashes tied tight around their waists, and no Vice Kings. But there were pinkertons, and there was Troy, and there was the clack of horses, and there were new enemies to be made. 

"Actually," Troy began, "I don't know how eager you are to get started on bounties,  _ but _ , if you wanna do this job, I already know a big one you might be interested in." 

Their interest was piqued. "My interest is piqued," they said. 

"Out at Canyon Saint Jude-- you know the spot? There's this old cabin, and people have been comin' back here shot or scared, calling for the cavalry to come down on it. Some guy that calls himself  _ Mr. Sunshine _ , I guess, and a-- uh, a general? A  _ supposed  _ general that he works for, have been running a drug den out of it. They got a whole gang, it sounds." 

They hummed, eyebrows raised. "Why haven't y'all done anything?" 

He snorted. "Cause it's  _ annoying _ .” He shook his head, sighed, and let the burden of his work depress him just a little bit further. “You spend a while thinkin’ that deputies and rangers are the good guys, then they don’t bother clearin’ out a drug den cause it’s a pain in the ass.” 

“You used to think lawmen were the good guys?” 

“ _ Well _ , that was a joke. Mostly. I’ve had a complicated life.” 

“I believe it.” 

“Anyway-- case is yours if you want it. There’s good money in it. Your call.” 

“Thank you, Troy. Really. Part of me was worried you wouldn’t want in.” 

“Hell, kid, I’m just happy you still trust me enough to give me your plans. I’d be lyin’ if I said it wasn’t a bit of a pleasant surprise.” 

They laughed. “I know you’re still on our side.” 

His brow twitched. He turned his face up to them, watching their profile as they stared out over the street, simply watching where they walked. “C’mon,” he jeered, “you can’t just drop that on me and walk away. That’s cruel.” 

“So’s letting your favorite outlaw find out you’re an undercover deputy from  _ someone else _ , but, hey, I learned to cope with it.” 

“ _ Did you?  _ I’m kinda getting the feeling you’re still mad about that.” 

“Oh, yeah! Thanks for reminding me. I’m still mad about that.” 

“ _ That’s  _ more in line.” 

They came to the front of their hotel, the thin wooden door painted a bright red, and Hsin-hung pulled away from his side to instead face him. “Here’s where I stay. If you’d like to act like normal human beings for once, I’ll stick around another day and we can try to be friends tomorrow. Otherwise, I have to embarrass myself trying to speak Cantonese right now, and go tell the innkeep I'll be leaving in the morning." 

He smiled, but his face looked tired, and his unbrushed hair fell in his eyes no matter how many times he pushed it back. “Listen, I-- I’d really like that, kid. But I’m working tomorrow; paper work out the ass, you know how it goes. I’ll barely be able to see you till, hell, after dark, probably.” 

They snorted. “I’ll disguise myself as an admirer and lounge around your office all day.” 

“Or I could just arrest you. Great bonding time.” 

“Or that.” They gave a loose shrug, a flip of their hands before they fell back to their sides. “I’m beginnin’ to think I’m never gonna see you again, Bradshaw.” 

He opened his mouth to tell them,  _ that’s ridiculous _ , but instead, he found himself falling silent. He understood what they meant, something a little more pressing than whether he’d ever stop being too busy to leave the office. Back in Stilwater, they’d talked to each other, and it’d felt so natural, and they  _ still  _ talked to each other, but every day the minutes got fewer, and every day they were closer to distance. 

"I'm gonna go to bed, Troy. I'd invite you to my room to chat more, but if I look at that mustache for too long I'm gonna get pregnant. I'll stick around one more day, see if we've still got it in us to, I dunno, keep stealing each other's cigarettes and judge other people like we used to." 

All they got was a weak laugh, a loose gesture of the hand, and a nod. "Sure," he finally said. "We'll give it a try." 

They smiled at him. Then they went inside, and they were gone. 

Troy knew better than anyone that it's an unfortunate truth of life that sometimes, even the friendships you want the most are destined to crumble apart. He could sit for hours desperately trying to pack the sand back together, but it would always slip through his fingers, little by little. It was miserable to think that one day he might never be able to spend another hour with the life he worked so desperately hard to save, but to say he saved them just so he wouldn't have to suffer another lost friend would be undeniably selfish and cruel. 

He watched them walk away and he did not stop them; he did not break the dam and let out everything he ever wished he had said, nor did he tell them that he never stopped considering them a friend. He could have told them how watching them suffer tore his heart to shreds, or how every day he wanted to smash his desk with a hammer, or how every moment he wasn't lost in his work, he felt like he was getting ripped down the middle between two different worlds, and he didn't know which one he belonged to anymore. 

He wasn't an excessively physical guy, but the pressure of their large, warm hand lingered on his arm, and he tried to remember the last time he'd had a friend so close. 

He tried to remember the last time he'd had a friend. 

He knew his way home, and he walked it without having to think much, which gave him a lot of leftover space to think about the things that hurt to think about. 

It had been a long time since Stilwater, and it had been a longer time since he was certain of who he was and what he wanted. To be frank, even with the risk it posed and how stupid he knew it was, he was exhilarated to work with the gang again, and it made him feel like he was finally home. 

He told himself to be reasonable, but he was simply not a reasonable man anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing troy hard


	10. Interlude 4

_ Stilwater, 1895 _

_ "And he will swallow up on this mountain the covering that is cast over all peoples, the veil that is spread over all nations. He will swallow up death forever, Isaiah 25:7-8." _

The fire burned brighter than anything the city had ever seen. The docks were ablaze, charred wood collapsing into the thrashing lakeshore, and the old warehouse was  _ rubble _ , still falling, still burning. 

The people were barely stunned.  _ Those docks were long abandoned.  _ No one of good moral standing used those docks anymore, not since TS Shipping had withdrawn their business. They'd all heard the explosion. In the old warehouse, empty so long, no smoke from its towers, no workers at its doors, they'd seen a fire so bright it might've been a star collapsing. 

There were no firemen coming. The fire was bright, the fire was vivid, but it was self contained. The corporations would handle the warehouse rubble, or they wouldn't, and it would sit on the ruined docks as they smoldered out in the dirty lake. Oh, it tainted and burdened the land,  _ but why should they be bothered to care?  _

The explosion was rumored to be an old machine left running and unattended, a chance of gunpowder and glass that caught the light just right, or hooligans disrespecting commercial property. The newspapers would run articles with convoluted explanations, rhetorical questions, and the promise that it would be fine-- factories explode all the time! Until the lawmen went exploring, and there was Mayor Hughes, missing for only a day or two, and there were his hired guards, and suddenly everyone  _ cared _ . 

Troy did not care like they did. He did not feel like one of them. Maybe he never had. 

It would be a few days, maybe, until the Saints were blamed for the explosion. He wondered if he could save them from what was to come, but he knew he couldn't. The kid was one of the best at staying out of the light, and still those  _ detective agency  _ assholes had ripped every last shred of privacy they had away, exposed their secrets to a world of cruel people. 

He had their wanted poster in his hand, freshly printed and ready for distribution. Already, Saints were being arrested in droves. The jail was overflowing, the prison overcrowded, the hangings were massive and people surrounded the gallows like it was a festival. 

Julius was already gone. Dex was already gone. Johnny was still fighting. Lin was dead. The kid, Xavier, was in his bed, wrapped in bandage and rarely awake. 

The poster in his hand had a rough drawing of their face. It didn't look quite the same anymore. They'd sustained, and survived, strange and brutal injuries, hurt he couldn't imagine. 

No one knew they were there that night but him and Julius. No one knew they were here, now, or that he was paying doctors to tend to them and paying them extra to keep quiet, or that he was helping them survive, or playing nurse and trying to bring them back to health. 

_ They're just a kid, _ he often thought, though he wasn't sure who he was telling it to. 

It was late September, and there was already a chill in the air, and it was already dark out, and there was already wind banging at his window. He begged that the noise wouldn’t wake them.

He knew they were asleep, because they weren't crying. When they were awake they cried, and sometimes they screamed, because it  _ hurt _ , and it  _ hurt too bad to live.  _

The doctor prescribed heroin for the pain, but he distrusted the stuff. He asked for morphine instead. The doctor had declined, insisted the heroin was the better choice, but then he'd seen the fading track marks in the crooks of their arms, and relented to morphine instead. The pills stayed locked in the cabinet, away from them, and he told himself he was strict enough with them.

He’d never wanted them to have to rely on him like this.

For now, Troy stood over his kitchen counter, doors all locked and curtains all closed. He could hear the violent slosh of the lake tide right outside, and he imagined stepping out, plunging head first into the lake, and never coming back.

Maybe it was selfish, but he wished he didn't have to keep them in his house. It was agonizing, to hear them suffer, to watch them barely able to move while the burns on their back healed. 

_ "Troy."  _

He bolted upright. He glanced over his shoulder at the water boiling on the stove. He swore a bit, and dipped into the bedroom. 

"You call me, kid?" 

Their lips were still parted. Half their face was buried in a mound of gauze and bandage; their arms and torso were so wrapped he thought he might never see their skin again. Still, he was ecstatic they'd woken with a  _ word _ , not a sob. 

_ "It hurts,"  _ they breathed. Their long, dark hair, singed and uneven at the edges, splayed out around their head like a makeshift halo, and their one eye turned slowly to watch him. Their lips were chapped, and their hair was greasy, but they raised one unsteady hand and reached out to him. 

He took it. Tears bubbled up and over in their eye, uncontrollable as it spilled down their cheek. "Hey, kid, I know, I know it does, okay? But, fuck, you're doin' so much better." 

"Why didn't-- why didn't you just let me die?" Their voice trembled, their breath quickened. "I wish I had died." 

He didn't know what to do. He shook his head. A year of mostly silence and now this was all they had to say. "No, kid, no-- you're just sayin' that cause it hurts, c'mon. I'll get you some water and somethin' to eat; you'll be fine." 

The hand gripping his was clammy and cold. He wondered if they had a fever.  _ Fuck.  _

"Troy," they repeated. They were panicked, jittery, and crying again. He wished they would stop.  _ He wished he knew how to make it stop.  _ "I'm scared." 

"I know." He reached out to them with his free hand and brushed a stray hair from their face. "I'm gonna eat soon. You can come sit with me, try to get something solid down." 

They blinked at him, tears still streaming down their face. Long, scarred arms reached up to him in an open, painfully vulnerable gesture. He leaned in, careful not to put his weight on them, and their arms cinched so tightly around his shoulders he thought they might suffocate him. 

The sobs came back, as if they felt it was okay to be heard now that their face was obscured in the thin cotton of his shirt. Their fingernails dug into his skin, tight and unrelenting. He still didn’t know what to do. “Why--” they choked, “why didn’t you let me die?” 

“I just couldn’t,” he said. “I just couldn’t.” 

His words sounded weak, empty and devoid compared to their desperate, emotional pleas. He didn’t know how else to say it; he didn’t know what else to tell them. It felt like there were so many things he didn’t  _ know _ , and every day he gathered more and more evidence, more useless facts, hoping to piece it all together. He couldn’t even sit them down and tell them why he’d spent hours digging through the fucking rubble, toppling ash and piles of bricks trying to find their body-- other than he just couldn’t  _ not _ do it. 

He hadn’t expected to find them alive, shredded to bits and burned, but alive. Maybe it was panic, adrenaline, or a stupid, unbreakable loyalty to someone he barely knew the truth of, who barely knew the truth of him, but he’d dragged them to help, carried them home, decided he would save them without ever really deciding it. 

And now, what was he supposed to tell them? That he didn’t know? That he wasn’t sure? That he was  _ sorry _ for lying, that he was  _ sorry  _ for telling Julius to talk them down instead of doing it himself, that he was  _ sorry  _ he hadn’t convinced them to get on a horse and ride as far and as fast as they could before everything came crashing down. 

They burrowed into his shoulder like it was safety. It hurt to be so trusted by them. 

He would tell them the truth, soon, but not right now. 

They hiccuped, and his weight felt so heavy that he had to prop his knee on the edge of the bed, just so he might not pressure their stitches. The water boiled over in the kitchen. He could hear it. He decided it didn’t matter. 

“It’s gonna be okay, kid,” he lied. “I’m tellin’ you, everything’s gonna be okay.” 

He felt them nod against his shoulder. “I trust you.” 

God, it hurt so bad. 

_ When Judas, who had betrayed him, saw that Jesus was condemned, he was seized with remorse and returned the thirty pieces of silver to the chief priests and the elders. “I have sinned,” he said, “for I have betrayed innocent blood.”  _

_ “What is that to us?” they replied. “That’s your responsibility.” _


	11. Horseplay

Gambling may be a vice, but it’s also an exercise-- that’s what Pierce told himself, anyway. He wasn’t a man of outrageous luck, but he considered himself one of considerable  _ smarts _ , and he had a good education in the sciences of statistics and probability. He took pride in that, happy to let any motherfucker know how goddamn hard he worked to figure all that bullshit out. Hours of reading second hand books didn't get him  _ nowhere.  _

He also liked to win. And he was a very good rider. 

To keep it simple, he was, in his own words, _ damn good competition.  _

Better than even that, Clara was a damn good horse. 

She stood easy on the dusty road, as if she already knew what was coming. She kept her ears back a twitch, listening to Pierce even as he sat silent on her back. He kept his grip loose but steady on the reigns, his spare hand idly petting her neck. 

Carlos stood beside him. It was almost dawn. The dim, hazy blue sky was only beginning to crack open with pale cream light, and in a few moments, the sun would be a brilliant red orb in the sky, dusting over the desert landscape, and then it would turn to daytime proper. 

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Carlos mumbled. He fidgeted with the gloves in his hands. "I mean, you might just lose." 

"Fat fuckin' chance," Pierce scoffed. "Listen, I know how to race, okay? But more importantly, I think this fool's gonna lose his temper when I beat him. You know his type; you've seen it." 

Carlos stuck out his lower lip, tilted his head back in thought. "I don't know how good I'm gonna be at taunting him." 

"Then go get Shaundi. Lord knows she's good at getting under people's skin." 

“No,” he said, almost offended. “I can do it.”

Pierce smiled at him. “That’s what I like to hear, rawheel. Maybe you’ll grow some personality, huh?” 

Carlos started to laugh, ready to bite back, but he was cut off by the whoop of an incoming rider. The leader of the bounty hunters, all saddled on his brawny young stallion, waved eagerly, a slack grin on his face. Two of his boys trailed behind him, though they failed to match his enthusiasm. 

His name was  _ Jedediah Stokes _ , so they’d learned, but they didn’t particularly care about that-- Pierce watched the gleam of his pistol in the sunlight, telling himself he had made the right call, that it couldn't go wrong. 

He was gambling on more than a race. He was gambling on the temperment of an unknown man, based entirely off instinct and assumptions. 

He cracked his neck and popped his shoulders back. 

It was gonna be a good ride. 

"Howdy, fella," Jedediah greeted, circling his stallion up to Pierce's side. "You look eager." 

“I like a good race,” he said. He kept his tone even, smooth, and casual. He was surely a perfect gentleman.

The other man laughed. "I suppose you must like losin', to challenge an  _ Appaloosa _ ." 

Pierce snorted, giving his young stallion a glance over. He was a strong horse, with ornery eyes, and he looked dusty, like his coat wasn't regularly cared for.  _ A shame _ , because his black hair looked like it might be gorgeous, otherwise. 

Pierce clucked his tongue. "We'll see, huh? Loser owes the other his drinks." 

"Agreed, cowboy." 

His eyes flicked a disdainful glance his way, but a retort died on his lips. He'd dealt with worse than carelessly flung words. His point would be proven and gained when he bested that fool; he was sure of that.

Jedediah’s boys dismounted and stood next to Carlos, who found himself bristling at the sudden proximity to men he already loathed. 

His brother had spoken once about how when you’re around men who mean you harm, you can feel it crawling up your back and twitching in your fingers. He’d said that when you lived an outlaw’s life, that feeling could be the only thing that kept you alive. Carlos turned his eyes up to Pierce’s face, all cloaked in the dim blue shadow of the morning. The older man was staring straight ahead, and Carlos had to assume he was repressing the same instinct. It was rare that he saw Pierce look so cold; even when they were in the middle of a fight, he had a brazen calm to him that spoke of certainty in any situation. Now, though, he just looked angry. 

"Whaddya say, fella? Race ya to the top of the old minin' hill?" 

Pierce nodded, knowing damn well that sorry excuse for a  _ road  _ up the mountain was loose and unstable just by looking at it. The risk was in slipping; pull a turn too hard, stick too close to the edge, lose your balance for a  _ minute,  _ the gravel and dirt could trip the horse. Their hooves might lose traction, slip and tumble, and down the mountain you'd go. It was hard terrain for a person, harder still for a galloping horse. 

He brushed his hand over Clara's meticulously braided mane. He trusted she would be okay. 

"Pull around the town, not through. There's a tree at the top. Stop there?" Pierce pointed to a sickly branch stuck at the top of the hill. "Send our boys up there, yeah? They'll wait for us and see who won. In case it's real close." 

Jedediah laughed. "If you think you need it, huh?" 

Pierce nodded to Carlos, gestured towards the tall hill. Carlos nodded, hopped on Nena's back, and waited for Jedediah's two boys to follow him. Pierce watched them amble off. 

He stood alone with Jedediah Stokes in the dusty nothing, waiting for the right moment. A loud creak caught his attention, and his eyes flicked to the stables at their back. 

The old stablehand had stepped out, still chewing on tobacco at the crack of dawn. He made eye contact, just briefly, and gave Pierce a slight nod of the head. "You boys gonna race?" He called, hobbling his way towards them. "Been awhile since we seen anythin' like that." 

"Sure as hellfire, old man," Jedediah replied. "Most entertainment you've probably seen in years." 

"If you care to watch, you can join our fellas up at the hilltop," Pierce offered. 

The old man nodded. "I think I will." 

The two racers rested as the stablehand mounted an old paint and trotted off. They watched him climb the hill, and Jedediah chuckled. "Now you're just stallin'." 

"What, scared a crowd'll see you lose?" 

"Just seems to me like you're a little  _ pressed _ , cowboy." 

"I say you tighten up and let the racin' do the talkin'. You know the path." 

He narrowed his gaze. "Course." 

Pierce's grip on the reign became two-handed, tighter, and his body tensed with an involuntary anticipation. 

"Count of three, then," he said, easing into the saddle. "On your call, Stokes." 

"Three." 

"Two." 

"One!" 

A short flick of the reigns, a dig of spurs into the flesh of the horses’ sides, a  _ Hyah!  _ from two voices to crack open the morning sky-- the race was on. 

Pierce’s breath caught with the wind as Clara launched forward, no need to ease her from a cantor to full gallop. The cold bit his face and nipped at his ears and nose, but his eyes focused only on the road ahead of him, blind to what else could possibly be. He  _ heard  _ Jedediah whoop, but the rough young man had already disappeared from his thoughts-- it was just him and Clara, pulling a wide turn around the town. 

The dust ascended like a great incoming storm, massive hands to flay and snatch at them as it billowed behind Clara’s clattering hooves. Pierce rose in his seat, knees his only support, hands in a bridge with the reins. 

Clara’s ears flicked back as she galloped. “That’s my girl!” He called, as she pressed forward. 

He broke his concentration for only a second, swinging his head to the side to glimpse the bounty hunter at the same throttle. Jedediah’s stallion took great, gusting snorts of air through flaring nostrils; against the rising sun, soon blood red in the sky, he had the gravitas of the devil himself. 

They tore around the backs of the town, passing by the sorry excuse for a town center and roaring by the old houses stacked up at the edges. An opening shopkeep cheered them on, but the rest of the puny town had yet to wake. 

He could not distract himself to glance up the hill, even as they hit the short stretch of open land from town to hill base, but the whoops and jeers bounced off the jagged face and into the valley. His grin broke wider as he recognized Carlos’s voice, louder than he’d ever heard it before. 

The pressure of his legs guided Clara forward, steady on her saddle, and he held his body just so his torso didn’t dare to bounce with the rock of her run. 

"C'mon, girl, you can do it," he called, right as she hit the beginning of the incline-- it was a hard twist right off the bat, a fork into the side of the hill immediately followed by another sharp curve in the opposite direction. He held his weight as steady and unburdensome as possible as Clara swung from side to side, already panting heavy breath. 

It was here he saw Jedediah Stokes had fallen a few paces behind. His ornery stallion resented the throw of his weight at such speeds, the threatening slip of his hooves on loose dirt. He was getting hard to handle, and a spare glance of only two seconds down the side showed an explosive frustration on the other man's face.

Pierce smiled. He could feel the dice rolling in his favor. 

Clara broke another hard turn; he gave another yip in support of her gallop; she didn't dare to stray too close to the edge. He could hear the men gathered at the bare-branched tree hollering, and their words turned distinct the closer he drew. 

_ "Ey, debilucho! C'mon, you can't make it up a hill?"  _

His call was punctuated with laughter and followed by sharp barks to shut up from the two bounty hunters at his back. But he must have been having fun, because he did not relent. 

_ "Man, I've seen grandmothers beat that fool; c'mon, Appaloosa!"  _

He laughed; Clara snapped around the next corner. Her head and neck bounced with each gallop, her gait hard and fast, and as the turns got tighter he refused to get sloppier. 

The race was only a sense of urgency that backed his focus on the sharp curves of the unbeaten road-- everything else was a nonissue when he leaned his weight into Clara's movement, when he held steady risen in the seat, when he beckoned, "You're good, girl, c'mon!" and she leapt over brush and rocks and fell into the next twist around. 

He did not know how close behind Jedediah Stokes was, but all that mattered was that he  _ was  _ behind. He tore into the final curve, the final stretch, knuckles tight on the reins even as he broke past the branch and collapsed back into the seat. Clara didn't want to stop yet, momentum carrying her onward; he pulled the reins sharp to the side, steering her into tight circles until she was forced to slow and stand. 

Carlos was by his side in an instant, though he watched the competition skitter up and slide past the tree just seconds after Pierce had done so. His stallion slammed into a stop, huffing noisily and flicking his tail about in irritation. 

"That colt ain't like to race much, huh?" Pierce laughed a bit, breathing hard but steady. "He seems pissed." 

Jedediah Stokes spit on the ground. "Bullshit, he just got tripped up cause he ain't know the track-- if we raced again he'd win it." 

"Nah, Stokes, those ain't the rules we agreed to." He tried not to grin as he swung off Clara's back in one smooth motion, boots planting firm on the ground. "I won it easy. That's all there is to it." 

"I don't  _ lose _ ." 

The old stablehand was sitting on a rock, only to rise and creak over to the side of the ornery stallion. "He looks furious, ya askin' me. I say he ain't got another race in him. How long you had this horse?" 

"It don't matter, old man! Goddammit." 

Pierce laughed, still breathless. "I mean, if you got your feelings hurt,  _ cowboy _ , we can forego the bets. I'm no sore winner." 

Pierce was not someone to falter under the glare of an enemy. Casual stance, hand resting on the hilt of his pistol, he grinned easy in the face of belligerence. 

It was a shame he didn't see the punch coming until it was a second too late. 

"Ah--  _ Fuck! _ " 

He swore as a ring on Jedediah's fist split his eyebrow open, the stinging cut an immediate blister on his bravado, but he caught his balance and had a heavy hit crashing into Jedediah's stomach within a moment. 

Pierce staggered as he pulled away; his head felt dizzy from the sharp punch, but he swallowed the pain and stood firm. He had his hands still raised, but he didn't need too-- 

Carlos was at his side and in front, fingers curled tight into fists; but, more surprising than that, the old stablehand had hobbled in front of him. 

Jedediah and his boys were grouped up, ready for a fight, and for a flash moment Pierce imagined a three on three brawl where he only had Carlos and a wobbly stablehand as his backup, and a heavy breath slipped past his tensed lips; the old man, however, was not poised to fight. 

"C'mon, now, this town's too quiet ta be fightin' in. Ain't got the patience or leisure for troublemakers." He chewed slow, spat a hunk of tobacco on the ground, and shifted on his bowed legs. "You got beat, boy. Have some damn pride." 

Cautious but curious, Pierce lowered his fists. The bounty hunters were infuriated; whether it was embarrassment or general irrationality, who cared? Pierce swiped his tongue under his teeth to avoid a proud grin. He'd been right. 

"Just a race, boys," he goaded. "No point actin' so  _ shameful _ ." 

Hateful glances shot at him from the hunters. He smiled blithely. 

_ Sons of bitches _ , he thought,  _ Dare you to fuck with me.  _

Jedediah Stokes was not a happy man. "Fuck this old ghost town," he spat. "We got a bounty to hunt. I'm not buyin' you any damn drinks." 

Pierce lowered his fists, open-palmed in a forced ease as he gestured them off. "Then leave." 

"I  _ will _ ." 

A great gust of wind shook the bare-branched tree as Jedediah and his boys mounted their steeds and turned down the trail with an accusatory flair. The three remaining on the mountain watched them go, fingers still twitching. 

The old stablehand broke the silence. "Fine race," he said. "You got a good ole mare. Strong girl." 

Pierce relaxed his stance, letting his shoulders drop and his back straighten. "She's a good one. Had her since she was a filly." 

"Reckon that's what makes it. Can't stand a man that treats an animal like a tool." The old stablehand shook his head, turned away, and mounted his equally aged mare. "Keep your eyes open while them boys are still in town; never knowin' what a wayward man with a bruised ego will try." 

Pierce and Carlos watched him go, offering a simple wave as he retreated to town. Alone, the two of them stood in the dust and finally breathed. 

"Good taunting," Pierce offered. "I could hear you some. Had fun?" 

Carlos rubbed at his head, laughing just a bit. "Hey, it's fun to get a little obnoxious sometimes. Reminded me of the rodeos back home." 

"That's the spirit, huh?" He clapped Carlos's shoulder, leading him over to their mares. "C'mon, let's get into town and make sure those boys clear out. I'll buy you somethin’ to eat." 

Mounting Nena in an easy swing, Carlos placed his hat back on his head and nodded at the blooming wound on Pierce's brow. "You don't wanna clean that up? You don't know what diseases were on that gringo's hand." 

He laughed, hopping back on Clara. "Solid point, man." 

"We'll go back to the hotel. I can help you clean it." 

With that, he turned Nena down the trail and took an easy trot back into town. The sun had risen fully, and the night chill had fully ceded into the broil of mid-morning. Soon it would be blazing, but there was a heavy breeze from the northwest coming off the mountains, and it accompanied them back to the rickety hotel. Shaundi was already sitting on the porch, one of Pierce's hats sitting on her head. 

"Mornin', sidewinders!" She called. "You assholes didn't wake me for the race." 

A short laugh spilled from Pierce's lips as he dismounted and tied Clara's reigns to the hitch. "Cause you don't wake the hell up 'less you smell fire or food, goddamn." 

"You missed a good race, too. The son of a bitch got real pressed when he lost." Carlos dropped to the ground and ran a hand down Nena's neck as he fell. 

Shaundi clapped her hands together. "So it worked." 

"So it worked!" Pierce grinned. "I mean, I got punched in the face for it, but that's negligible.” 

She met his grin. “I dunno what that word means, but great.” She stood, and he snatched his hat off her head. Blowing stray hairs out of her face, she continued, “You gonna get breakfast?” 

“Gotta clean up first,” Carlos interjected. “Don’t want that cut givin’ him rabies or anything.” 

Shaundi spun on her heel to follow them in, and in a matter of minutes they were sitting in the hotel room with a dry rag and a half-empty bottle of absinthe. Pierce sat on the edge of the bed with his face in Carlos’s hands, trying not to wince at the sting of the alcohol. 

Rough hands turned his cheek and dabbed at the split on his eyebrow; it was leaking blood down his lid and slipping down the side of his face, but it wasn’t enough to frighten. What was nastier was the red and pink bruise already blossoming around it, tinging umber skin an angry shade of crimson. 

“Gonna bruise,” Carlos mumbled, preoccupied with the careful motion of soaking the edges of the cut. “But it’s shallow. Just a split.” 

Pierce did not flinch away, even as he pressed the soaked rag to the open wound and it stung like misery. Even still, Carlos held his face with his free hand, perhaps a habit from treating wounds on younger siblings. 

“That’s fine,” Pierce said, letting out a small sigh, “What’s another bruise, huh? Got a million of ‘em anyway.” 

Carlos smiled a bit. "That racing was amazing, though, man; you were  _ flying.  _ I've never seen someone so steady on turns like that." 

If ego was visible, Carlos might've seen Pierce's swell up with pride. He pressed out his chest, a small grin on his face. " _ Thank you, _ " he said. "I've put a lotta work into my riding." 

The calloused tips of Carlos's fingers brushed along his jaw and temples, gently turning his head from side to side to look for any other cuts or bruises. Finding none, he settled on his brow, a careful thumb brushing away stray specks of dust. He rewet the rag with alcohol and pressed it deep into the wound, holding Pierce's face as he winced. "You had that fool  _ steaming _ . I think to say he underestimated you is too kind." 

Pierce, trying not to twitch, confirmed, "I thought I had him read for that type." 

Shaundi was sat at the window, perched on the opposite end of the bed. She had kicked off her boots and turned to stare out on the city street, content to let Carlos tend to Pierce at the moment. She had retaken Pierce’s pinched front hat, letting it slope down over her brow and shield her eyes from the shimmering sunlight. 

“Hey,” she interrupted.

Carlos flicked his head up to her. "¿Mande?" 

"Come look." 

Pierce turned, Carlos abandoning his side to join her at the window. 

Shaundi pointed. "Look like your bounty hunters?" 

Five men were gathered out front, shambling about like they wanted to make themselves  _ known,  _ but wanted to appear casual at the same time. It was a piss poor attempt at nonchalance, but it got the point across. 

Jedediah Stokes was angry. 

_ "No way,"  _ Carlos whispered, his lips parting in disbelief. "Washington, you  _ really  _ pissed him off."

Pierce appeared behind them, rag abandoned on the blanket. "You're fuckin' kidding me-- he was just supposed to get his feelings hurt and skip town outta shame-- the hell is he tryna pull?" 

Shaundi, with great effort, forced the sand-glued window open, and stuck her head out of it. "Hey, boys!" she shouted, rough voice carrying on the wind, "Whattya doin' out there?" 

The man in the middle stuck his finger up in the air, gesturing with great emotion. "I'm waitin' for that  _ fuckin'  _ high-binder to come back out! I ain't believe I lost just yet!" 

Shaundi blinked, and pulled her head back inside. "Damn," she said. "What a prick." 

Pierce reached over her and slammed the window shut. He turned on his heel and rubbed his face, giving a light shake of his head. "I swear to God--" he paused and took a deep breath. "I'm gonna go down there, and that son of a bitch is gonna pull a gun on me, isn't he?" 

Carlos and Shaundi gave half-hearted nods. "Probably," they both agreed. 

"Goddamn." 

Shaundi stood, pushing back her stolen hat and brushing loose hair out of her face. "I mean, not like you have to go it alone, Pierce. We'll head down with you." 

Carlos snorted. "Three on five; good odds." 

She shrugged. "Let's get Aisha and Gat on it. Aisha doesn't fight, but she can fire a gun." 

"Gat's still struggling to walk; I don't know if that's the best idea today." Pierce paced a bit, tapping at his lower lip. His brow still stung, but his vision and judgement sure as hell weren't damaged. 

Carlos cut in. "Johnny'll hear the shots, and he doesn't like getting left out of action, yeah? Why not just let him stand and, uh-- intimidate?" 

"Cause Boss and Aisha will both kill me if he gets shot again." 

"Then don't let him get shot." Shaundi shrugged, slung a rifle over her shoulder, and stood at his side. She tilted her face up to him, a good eight inches shorter when barefoot. Even still, she squared her shoulders to command an air of confidence, and cracked a large grin. “We’ve done stupider.” 

Pierce took a deep breath and let his shoulders untense. “Yeah,” he agreed, “we have. Alright.” He checked the pistols on his hips, ensuring they were fully loaded, and spun the cylinder around just for show. “I don’t wanna risk escalating. Keep Johnny in the window. He knows how to work a range.” 

Shaundi collapsed on the bed and started to pull on her boots; Carlos dipped out to knock on Johnny and Aisha’s door. Pierce picked his hat off Shaundi’s head, placed it on his own, and sighed. 

“Ya know, I wanted to be an architect.” 

Shaundi turned her face up to look at him, blinked once, and shrugged. “Still could. Build fancy towers on the lam.” 

He snorted, pushing the brim of his hat back so as not to disturb the wound on his brow. “I’m just bitching. No point in gettin’ pissy about it  _ now _ .” 

Shaundi stood with a wide stance, boots on, and left her hands on her hips. “You’ve said all that before, man. You’re doin’ alright.” 

Her confidence, and the way she stood so surely with her head at the height of his chin, made him laugh a bit, and he shook his head with a blithe sort of assurance. “Thanks, Shaundi. You’re a real doll.” 

She grinned, and slapped her arm around his waist as they stepped out. “We make a good team, Pierce.” 

“Yeah,  _ just _ , help me not get shot here, okay?” 

“You’ll be  _ fine _ . You always are.” 

There was something very comforting about her completely unearned confidence. Maybe it was contagious. 

Carlos met them on the stairs, Aisha trailing a bit behind him. She lingered on the top step, hesitated and called after them, “Don’t bring the fight home, alright?” 

He turned up to her and nodded his head in one slow movement. “Of course, Ms. Palmer. Try not to.” 

“I’d hate to see you fools get shot.” 

He gave half of a smile. “Goddamn, me too.” 

She laughed and waved her hand in a dismissive gesture, too used to the back and forth of never ending fights. Shaundi interrupted her departure, calling after her as she turned, “You can come with! We always got an extra gun.” 

“No-- I’m not much one for a fight, really. Not my thing.” 

“Never too late to start.” She waved her pistol a bit as if it were tempting. “Somethin’ to do in your free time.” 

“ _ Thank you _ , really, but no. You sound like Johnny.” The tiny smile on her lips betrayed her tone, but she shook her head and turned away. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t miss.” 

“Thank you, Ms. Palmer,” he called after her, and continued on his way. 

The town looked much the same as he last left it, with the exception of a few tired onlookers now staring down the bounty hunters in the hopes of a little morbid entertainment. It was a sickening atmosphere, one that made him feel like a gladiator stepping into a ring. 

Jedediah Stokes stared him down with all the fury of a man slighted, all his ire founded in a perceived disrespect, likely much more than was even intended. Even so, Pierce stepped before him without a worry to his name. 

“That race weren’t fair,” Stokes said, flat and low. 

“Say how,” Pierce returned. “Speak with somethin’ other than your ego for once.” 

His back straightened, jaw popping with a clench. His pause hung in the air, and not even the bystanders dared to make a move. “You knew the path,” he suddenly breathed, “You been here longer.” 

“By a  _ day _ .” 

“That makes all the difference.” 

“You’re a sore loser.”

“You’re a cheat!” 

He could only barely hide the offense he took. “ _ Bullshit _ .”

"The loss weren't justified!" 

"Then what do you  _ want _ , huh? You wanna race again until you get it? That horse of yours'll die before you're satisfied." 

The whip of a pistol through the air spoke louder than words; the glint of the barrel in the brightening sun was a beacon of indignation. "My horse ain't a testament to skill, fella. Only thing you can trust is your own two hands." 

Pierce watched the pistol rotate in his hand. He pushed back his jacket and rested his hand on the hilt of his own cattleman revolver, and shifted his weight to the other foot. "Don't be dramatic, man. No one’s gotta die over a game." 

_ “Scared?”  _

“For you.” 

He snorted. There was a fire in his eyes, a cold flame, like bitter hellfire bleeding from an unloving soul. It was unnerving. 

A crowd had gathered. It must have been the whole town, save for those living on the very outskirts, standing on the edge of the street to indulge in the cheery entertainment of senseless, unexpected violence. Cowpokes murmured to one another, pointed between him and them; he saw a saloon worker peak from the curtains of the upstairs bar, arms resting on the windowsill and forehead against the glass. Pierce told himself the stares were only encouragement to perform. 

Jedediah Stokes spoke in a low voice. “Draw.” 

He paused for only a moment before he made a very risky, possibly very stupid, decision, for his vice was to gamble, and a gambler doesn’t always play it safe. 

“Alright,” he said, “ten paces. Have your boys put their guns down.” 

Jedediah spit on the ground. “Yours first.” 

He nodded his head to the side, and Carlos and Shaundi dipped to the porch of the hotel and sat their weapons at their feet. Jedediah’s companions followed suit, leaning against the columns of the building. Pierce and Jedediah, meanwhile, stood facing one another only two feet apart. “On ten,” Pierce said, and they both pivoted on heeled boots. 

The crowd was at full attention, now, necks strained high in anticipation.  _ One step.  _ The woman at the window had rushed downstairs and now stood outside in the shadow of the bar awning.  _ Two steps.  _ She was chatting with another woman, who whistled to cheer them on.  _ Three steps.  _ He raised his hand off the hilt of his gun, letting it hover in the air.  _ Four steps.  _ He flexed his fingers.  _ Five steps.  _ He knew just where he was going to aim.  _ Six steps.  _ It was just a matter of trusting his eye, and steadying his hand.  _ Seven steps.  _ He hadn’t been in a proper duel in years, but he had to trust instinct.  _ Eight steps.  _ He could hear his tempered pulse.  _ Nine steps.  _ The bullshit he put up with for this gang.  _ Ten steps.  _ He swung on his heel. 

The gun was in his hand before his heart could reach its second beat; his thumb slipped over the hammer, his index coiled around the trigger, his palm pressed flush against the smooth handle. It was only him, the glare of the sun, and the burning metal of a loaded revolver. 

For the first time in a long time, his hands moved faster than his mind, and he was already firing before he’d even registered it was time to shoot. 

A sharp intake of breath shot through the crowd as the loud  _ crack!  _ of a pistol shattered the still morning air. Pierce’s lungs were still, eyes sharp on his target, even as he held the smoking gun back in the air. 

Jedediah Stokes choked back a painful sob.  _ “You son of a bitch!”  _ He cried, clutching his stinging, burning hand. 

His pistol lay three paces behind him, the dust still settling from where it’d flipped backwards out of his hand and spun across the ground. 

Pierce exhaled. “I told you not to play, Jedediah!” 

_ “You shot my fuckin’ hand!”  _

“I did you a  _ favor _ ; no point dyin’ over your  _ ego _ , boy.” He spun his gun around his finger once and then holstered it, relaxing his weight to one foot. “Maybe next time you’ll think before pickin’ fights you can’t win, huh?” 

_ “You’re a fucking prick!”  _

Carlos and Shaundi, still sat at the sideline, stifled inappropriate laughter behind fake coughs and gloved hands rubbing at stubborn grins. The crowd broke into open cheers and calls, yet was still waiting for the next move. The grocer let out a low whistle, admiring the shot; the women from the saloon gave some loud whoops; two incredulous cowboys murmured under their breath. Jedediah's boys, meanwhile, were shifting uncomfortably for their guns, but weren’t quite confident enough to actually draw. 

Pierce glanced up for only a second, and saw Johnny staring down at him from the window with a grin plastered on his face. “Shoulda just shot him!” He called, but his voice was full of a laugh. He nodded his head back, forcing down a matching grin. 

"Go home, Stokes," Pierce said, returning his gaze to the disgraced man. "Just go home. You ain't tough." 

"Fuck you!" He yelled. "You’re a liar and a cheat!” 

Pierce shook his head and turned to walk back to Carlos and Shaundi, who met him with eager faces. “You keep sayin’ that, but you can’t back it up for shit-- you can’t race, you can’t shoot-- you can’t  _ beat me _ , Stokes.” 

He didn’t have time to register the bang of the gun before he felt the hot  _ sting  _ of an impact in his thigh. It was a sudden impact of nothingness, an overwhelming numbness, before his right leg suddenly collapsed--  _ it didn’t hurt.  _ It just refused to support him. He caught himself on his hands, a sharp intake of breath his only reply, as the world erupted around him. 

Really, he could only focus on the strange  _ numbness  _ radiating through his leg. He didn’t hear the shouts and yelling at first, or maybe he did, and it was just errant background noise. But, when he heard more shots firing, he rolled as quickly as he could, landed on his hip, and flipped his pistol back out of its holster. 

Down the barrel of his gun, he saw Jedediah Stokes jumping as tiny splats of dust shot up around him. The bullets were spinning from the hotel window, he realized, just as Johnny yelled, “You fuckin’ pussy!” and Pierce steadied his aim right as Johnny purposefully sent one splicing through Jedediah’s shoulder. “You’re lucky I don’t drop you right fuckin’ now, little boy!” 

He saw one of the bounty hunters leap forward, gun in hand, barrel swinging upwards, and in an instant he’d knocked back another two bullets, furious pops in the man’s shoulder and side. The other hunter sprung to his feet, and the barrel was barely aimed at Pierce before Johnny  _ whooped  _ and caught him in the neck. 

The numbness in his leg was replacing itself with a molten burning; he wobbled for a moment, before he allowed his head to roll back and rest in the dust as the scene around him continued to erupt, until all that he cared to focus on was Carlos and Shaundi appearing at his sides. 

“_Hey_, Pierce! C’mon, don’t scare me like this--” Shaundi’s arms wrapped under his heavy back, entwined with Carlos’s to lift him back up. “It’s just shock, huh? Yeah, that’s all.” 

“I’m good,” he breathed. “Goddamn.” 

Carlos laughed with a nervous twang, hand carefully planted on the back of Pierce’s neck to make sure he didn’t tip over again. “Yeah, man,  _ good _ . C’mon, three, two,  _ one _ , up!” 

His two significantly smaller friends blustered upwards with him in tow, looping his arms over their shoulders and pressing into his sides to act as balancers. He almost recoiled; his leg felt hot and wet and  _ detached _ , like it wasn’t part of him anymore, about to slip off and slide away. He stared down at his leg. Really, he couldn’t see anything past his black pants. But it  _ felt  _ like someone had slipped a whitehot iron under his skin and left it to steam. 

_ Still didn’t hurt.  _ Just burned. It would hurt soon. He grimaced. 

He heard shouting still, and some  _ booing? _ , but he focused on forcing his legs to work as Shaundi and Carlos helped him step away and towards the dilapidated doctor’s office. 

“We got you,” Shaundi said, her voice breathy. “That was a show, huh!” 

“Hell of a day,” Carlos mumbled. “How many of us are gonna get shot in a week, huh?” 

_ “Let’s stop here, that’s good with me,”  _ Pierce balked, “ _ Fuck,  _ I hate doctors.” 

Shaundi kicked open the door to the building with one swift boot. “It’ll be alright,” she promised, “I’ll stick with you till you can leave.” 

The truth of being shot, even when the bullet only splices through the soft tissue of a battle-hardened man’s thigh, is that it tends to fog one’s mind, and they are likely to faint. Pierce took a deep, even breath, and rested his head back as he was helped onto an examination chair. He did not want to faint.  _ He desperately did not want to faint.  _

Shaundi went knocking in the back, calling for the doctor to come down, and Carlos stood by his side.

“Have you ever been shot before?” Carlos asked, tilting his hat back to wipe the gathered sweat off his brow. 

“ _ Once _ ,” Pierce admitted. “You’d think getting shot would be--  _ ugh--  _ would be a common occurrence in this line of work, huh?  _ It’s really not _ .” 

“Getting shot  _ at  _ is different, huh?” 

“ _ Absolutely.  _ I get shot  _ at  _ all the time. No big deal, that shit.” 

Carlos laughed. “Jesus, man-- when I saw him take his gun, my heart shot up my throat. I thought you were gonna die.” 

Pierce’s eyebrows drifted up, just a bit, as a shaky hand gripped his burning thigh. “Fuck, I’m glad you’re a shitty psychic.” 

“ _ Hah,  _ I think it’s more lucky that you mangled his firing hand.” 

“Wish I’d just shot him.” 

Carlos thought for a moment, head quirked to the side, before he spoke slowly, “I think you made the right call.” 

Pierce made a small noise at him to articulate. 

“Well, you probably didn’t notice, but-- the town was  _ really  _ on your side after that. When you shot the gun out of his hand,  _ oomph _ . People were cheering. It was exciting. He made a coward of himself, so he looked pathetic. All that over a race, too.” 

Pierce took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “So my plan worked, ‘cept I wasn’t supposed to get  _ shot  _ for it. I was just tryna bruise some ego, drive the son of a bitch outta town.” 

Carlos failed to reply, instead stepping back as the doctor came down in a rush, Shaundi by his side. He gave Pierce a small nod, a tip of the hat, which Pierce returned with a tired bob of the head, and Carlos left to speak with Johnny and Aisha. 

He would spend a few hours having the wound meticulously coated in alcohol and stitched shut; the entry wound was barely larger than a dime, but the exit wound had torn open his thigh into a nasty gash, and the skin was cut ragged and uneven. He considered himself  _ lucky  _ it was just a round ball bullet, and nothing more advanced. 

True to her word, Shaundi stayed by his side the whole way through. He was surprised, at first, but found himself thankful for it, even as she rested her chin on her arms and occasionally squeezed his hand so tight it threatened to cut off his circulation. The doctor himself was silent, mostly, and Pierce was left to focus on steadying his breath, digging his nails into the leather of his belt, and staring out the window at the bright summer street. 

It must have been late afternoon by the time he was told he could leave, though the doctor encouraged him to visit again in the coming days so he might check for infection. He paid for the surgery, a bottle of medicine and painkillers, and a crutch; Shaundi helped him outside and walked with him down the street. 

“ _ Well _ ,” he began, “today’s fucked. Bad gamble.” 

She snorted, a hand planted firm on his back. "Look at the bright side, huh? You're the most desirable bachelor in town, now." 

He was distracted by the undertaker dragging along the bodies of the unruly bounty hunters, leaving a trail of dust-muddled blood in the street. "Girl, what're you talkin' about?" he asked incredulously. 

Shaundi gave his shoulder a gentle nudge.  _ "Look left,"  _ she whispered, a grin on her face. 

He turned his head towards the saloon, and saw the two women from before still basking in the shade of the porch. They smiled as he caught their eyes, waved and called greetings towards him. He smiled politely and tipped his hat back at them, and one of them giggled as she flicked open a fan. 

Shaundi stifled an amused giggle of her own and tried to whisper, "Yeah, I think they might wanna  _ kiss it better _ . Everyone loves a rugged stranger." 

He laughed, still limping towards the hotel and shouldering his way through the door. "You think?" 

"Yeah! I think that stunt-- shooting the gun out of his hand?-- seduced half the women in this town. Maybe all of 'em." 

"Well, damn, that's a whole four women." 

"Mm. You'll wear yourself out." 

"I know how to pace myself, thank you." 

She laughed as she helped him up the stairs, careful to hold his weight off the freshly stitched leg. "If you feel up to it, we could go get drinks later. Celebrate that you’re now the baddest man in town.” 

He thought about it, and as he reached the landing of the second floor, he nodded. “Assuming I’m not dying by tonight, that’ll be fun.” 

She grinned at him, took his hat from his head and plopped it on her own. “You’re alright.” 

He snorted. Between the ache in his split brow and the sting in his thigh, he felt rather like  _ hell _ , but he was  _ proud _ nonetheless. 

“Yeah, I’m alright,” he said. “Be better when we’re back on the road.” 

Shaundi traded away her privacy to Pierce, taking Carlos as her roommate so he might have space to himself while he recovered. They had a week or so still to rest, and a week still to linger in this town by extent, but Pierce was focused on the moment he was in, and stripped down his dusty, bloodied clothes to better recline on the creaky old bed. The sun still bled through the window, and it would for many hours now, but he closed his eyes and found himself exhausted and hungry, but too exhausted to fix the second issue. It felt to him as though his hard work had immediately been spoiled, and Johnny had even taken the pleasure of killing the man that ruined his time, but he struggled to find a reason to nurse that grudge. 

His leg was beginning to hurt. It hurt, and it hurt  _ bad.  _ He sucked a breath through his teeth, pressed his head back into the pillow, and firmly set the painkillers on the table down next to him. 

Suddenly, a quiet house in Colorado, with no gunslingers to follow, sounded very, very nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *has finals* oh wow i really oughta update the western au.........................this is more important.......................  
it's 4:58 am


	12. Interlude 5

_ Somewhere outside Bethlehem, PA, 1894 _

“Pierce, this is  _ boring _ .” 

“C’mon, girl, we haven’t been out here 10 minutes. Try again, just a few more times.” 

“I  _ know  _ how to shoot, Pierce, why are we doing this?” Cela huffed, her shoulders slack and chin tilted up towards the cloudy sky, Pierce’s revolver dangling by her side from her limp hand. “Daddy taught me how to shoot  _ ages  _ ago.” 

“I  _ know  _ you  _ know  _ how to shoot,  _ Jesus.  _ I already said, this ain’t about learning how to shoot-- it’s about learning how to  _ aim. _ ” 

Cela turned her head back down and stared at him with a hard brow. “Aiming is part of shooting, dummy.” 

He rolled his eyes. “You’re missin’ the point.” He stood, popped his shoulders, and brushed the dust off his pants. “Listen: let’s say you’re gettin’ challenged by some no-good son of a bitch who wants a fight. It’s in the middle of the city.  _ Well _ , if you kill him, that’s even more trouble on you than you had with the dumb bastard tryna fight you.” 

She snorted, giggled a little bit, and shook her head. “ _ Okay _ , I’m imagining it.” 

He grinned. “Right, so, you don’t wanna kill him. But he’s already got his gun drawn! What’re you gonna do? Shoot him, and let the law come down on you? Nah, Cela, you’re gonna shoot the gun out of his hand and leave him cryin’. If you’re  _ real  _ good, you won’t even break the skin.” 

She laughed, eyes scrunched shut, and opened her palms to him in a gesture of disbelief. “When is that  _ ever  _ gonna happen? You should be teachin’ Gray this stuff, not me.” 

“Gray is three. Let’s get him off the bottle before we start on guns.” 

She laughed again, even snorted, before smoothing out her skirt and sitting down on a stump of wood. “I’m just sayin’, I’m not gonna be some wild west gunslinger. I don’t even like that stuff-- I think it’s dumb.” 

Pierce slipped his hands in his pockets and sighed, shifting his weight to one foot as he looked down at her. “Cela--” he began, quietly, before he took a deep breath and sat down on the ground across from her. “I know that. I’m just-- worried, is all. Constantly.  _ Constantly.  _ I’m always worried. It’s miserable.” 

She snorted, staring down at her lap as she picked at a loose thread on the edge of her sleeve. “You don’t  _ act  _ worried.” 

“If I acted worried it’d make all you damn kids worried, too. And we can’t have that, huh?” 

Cela shrugged. “I guess not.” 

He leaned forward, balancing his forearms on his knees. “Cela, I know there’s a lotta years between us, but after me, you’re the oldest. And if I-- If I have to  _ leave _ , or I’m  _ not here _ , for whatever damn reason, I know it’s all gonna fall on you. Lot of it already has, since you’re a  _ dumb girl  _ and all.” He bopped her knee with his fist, watched her sway back and give a weak laugh at him. “It’s not--” he stopped, sighed, rubbed at his face, and tried again. “It’s not a skill I want you to  _ need  _ to have. Does that make sense?” 

“Mmhm,” she affirmed, with a tiny nod. Her brow was still knit, a frown on her face, like she wasn’t sure she liked where he was headed. 

“Yeah. I want you to just _ be safe, _ forever. I know I’m a dickhead--” 

“You are,” she cut him off, nodding surely. 

He snorted. “ _ Yeah.  _ As I was  _ saying _ , I know, but I care about you a lot. You and Flora and Gray.” 

Cela slumped again, rolling her head back in an overdramatic exasperation. “Pierce, I  _ know!  _ I know you care, I know how to shoot; what is wrong with you that you suddenly gotta make a show of it all?” She stared at him, discontent. “Are you in trouble?” she whispered. 

He didn’t meet her eyes for a moment, opting to frown at the dirt and patchy grass instead. “Maybe,” he finally said. “It’s not your business.” 

“You gotta tell me if you are, or I’ll tell Mama.” 

_ “Snitch.”  _

“It’s for your own good!” She mocked. 

_ “Tattle-tale.”  _

She stuck her tongue out at him, a rude gesture he instinctively returned. 

“I won’t actually tell Mama,” she relented, crossing her arms over her waist. “I just-- I wish you wouldn’t be so  _ stupid  _ all the time.” 

“You’re stupid, stupid. I’m tryna help you, so you don’t have to be worried if I ever have to leave.” 

She thought about it, silent for a moment before she sighed and rubbed her palm against her cheek. “Do you  _ have  _ to leave?” 

“Not yet,” he promised. “Hopefully not for a while.” He stood up, and offered her his hand. “C’mon, stand,” he said. “I’m gonna give you a hug.” 

“Ew,” she mumbled, but there was no passion in it. Instead, she just stood, and flopped against his chest. He squeezed her as tightly as he could, trying to get her to laugh again. She simply snorted, and  _ then  _ laughed, and playfully shoved against his stomach. 

“Cela,” he began, in serious voice, “If you ever need me, I’ll  _ be  _ there.” 

“You sound like Daddy,” she mumbled, chin perched on his shoulder. 

“I know. It’s ‘cause I’m old now.” 

She laughed. 

He drew away, picked up his revolver off the ground, and placed it back in her hand. “I’m not kiddin’ when I say that aiming is a different skill. I want you to know it. Maybe you can teach it to Flora and Gray when they’re older.” 

“Stop talkin’ like a grandpa,  _ Jesus _ .” 

He scoffed at her, but declined to comment, and instead turned and drew his secondary pistol to aim at a glass bottle perched on a tree. “One thing to be able to hit a trunk,” he said, and fired, popping the bottle right off the branch. “Another to be able to hit a stick.” 

She sighed at his dramatics once again and aimed the pistol, barrel pointed at another bottle he’d already set up. “So you think going non-lethal is gonna make me safer?” 

“Absolutely. Sometimes all you need to get someone to leave you alone is a bruised ego and a good intimidation tactic.  _ But _ , I mean, it’s all discretion. You gotta make the call in the moment.” He shrugged, then added, “sometimes it backfires.” 

She pulled the trigger, watched the bottle burst, and cheered at her success. Pierce grinned, and offered a hand for her to slap. 

He walked away to set up more bottles, wishing that this was all overcautious nonsense, and he would never  _ actually  _ leave, and she would never  _ actually  _ need to know these things. He called over his shoulder as he did, “You never know what’s gonna happen, huh? So just be prepared for all of it.” 

He prayed all he was preparing for was a peaceful future and a good life. He prayed Cela never saw the side of the city he did. 

He helped her aim the gun again, and cheered for her with each successful hit. 

He was gonna miss being around like this. 

He watched her blast another bottle. 

The stitches on his arm itched. He rubbed at the aching flesh when she wasn’t looking. 

“Can’t get shot if he doesn’t have a gun in his hand, right?” 

“Guess not.” 

“Hit the next one as fast you can, okay? I wanna see you workin’ on instinct.” 

We teach our loved ones what we wished we’d known. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here's a fun fact: i chose Cela for the name of Pierce's sister cause i thought it had a nice ring to it and matched up with "pierce" (sounded like they were coming from the same parents, yknow??) but when i looked it up, both Pierce and Cela are names that could possibly be derived from words meaning "rock." so i guess that's a family trend now, huh? rocks. who doesnt love a good rock.


	13. A Cowboy's Lament

When the Boss returned to their gang, it was already a pitch black night in the windy little town. They hitched their faithful mare to the makeshift spot at the back of the hotel, and snuck in through the balcony door. The pocket watch that rested by their heart said it was nearly one in the morning, and their tired eyes affirmed the notion; but, when they entered what was once their hotel room, dreaming only of a bath and the sweet release of sleep, they were met with a body on their pillow. 

_ "Carlos," _ they whispered, squatting next to, what was once, their side of the bed. _ "Ey, Carlos! Wake up, kid." _

They hesitated only a moment longer, watching him groan and pull the covers over his head before they grabbed him by the shoulder and shook. 

Carlos startled, jolting awake at the touch and accidentally slamming his cold feet into Shaundi's back as he donkey-kicked in reaction. 

"_ Jesus, Boss! _You scared me--" 

Hsin-hung was stifling a laugh, gloved hand pressed flush against their mouth as Shaundi-- after yelping in shock-- rolled over bleary-eyed to smack Carlos's shoulder. She gave him a half-assed shove for good measure, then quickly let it go as she noticed who crouched on his other side.

"Boss?" she mumbled, beginning to rub at her eyes, "you're back?" 

They grinned and gave a small nod. "Just got back in town. I was just gonna sneak in and drop my stuff off before I got ready for bed, but I see you got a man to fill my absence." 

Shaundi snorted, quickly followed by a yawn, but Carlos flushed in the cheeks. 

"It's not _ like that _," he insisted, voice still hoarse from sleep. 

They barely laughed. "I know, kid; I'm just teasing you. It's what I do. Why're you shackin' up in here, anyway?" 

He fell quiet for just a second, lips still parted as he struggled to find the right way to phrase his answer. Before he could speak his first syllable, Shaundi had beat him to the punch and spoke plainly: 

"Pierce got shot." 

The Boss's back straightened, face flashed upwards to meet her glance. In the barely useful amount of light in the room, her eyes were only vaguely green glints in the shadow, but even then they could tell she was speaking genuinely. 

"What happened?" they asked, question spoken in a breath. "Is he okay?" 

They stood, suddenly, as if to go see him, but Carlos interrupted their impulsivity. 

"He's okay, Boss-- just got caught in the thigh, fatty flesh, you know the spot." 

They grimaced, but nodded. It was a lucky spot to be hit, but that didn't make it _ ideal. _

"It was kind of a corker, actually," Shaundi said, voice still low and mumbly. "Bounty hunters came to town; Pierce made these peckerwoods mad enough to fight him, but folk were already on his side for some-- some neat horse stuff and honor and shit-- then he got shot, but he's okay." 

Carlos nodded to affirm her story. "Some of the hunters are dead, but most skipped town. They were looking for you-- just you." 

Hsin-hung nodded, slowly, processing each word individually and digesting it carefully. "Good to know," they murmured. "And Washington? He's here?" 

"Yeah-- I took your spot so he could be more comfortable. He and Johnny both are getting dragged to the doctor about every day. They're healing." Carlos propped himself up on his hand as he spoke; he was visibly more awake than Shaundi, who leaned her body weight against his side just to stay upwards. 

"Mostly," she said, "we gotta thank Miss Aisha for that." 

With a small sigh, Hsin-hung rubbed at their eye and tried not to groan. "Sounds about right-- _ fuck, _I shouldn't have left--" 

Shaundi cut them off. "S'okay, Boss. Worked out alright." 

"It's not so bad here, really," Carlos shrugged. 

They snorted, then laughed, and shook their head. "Wait till you get shot, then we'll see your feelings." 

Carlos laughed without much humor, knowing it was all too high a possibility at this rate. Instead, he switched the topics, neck craned back to see the Boss's face as they towered above him. "Where did you go?" 

"San Caterina. To the east. To see an old friend." They took their hat from their head and rested it on their hip, suddenly aware of the exhaustion settling in their limbs and head. They were sweaty and dusty and ached all over, but their heavy mind still raced about as fast a Quarter horse. "I'll tell you more after I've talked to Johnny, huh?" 

Their cop-out garnered a bit of a stare, but cautious glances turned to amiable nods, and in a moment they exchanged Carlos room keys, bid them both good night, and ducked back out to the lantern-lit hallway. They decided they would try not to wake Pierce, because they did not want to disturb someone in pain.

They slipped through the door as quietly as they could, removed their boots before they even began to step towards the dresser, and stepped as lightly and carefully as they could through the small room. Pierce, despite having the bed to himself, laid on one side, probably by habit, and was facing the inside of the bed-- so that his injury wasn't pressed against the mattress, they assumed. They lingered for only a second, carefully watching for the rise and fall of his chest, before turning to the dresser. 

Carlos had been kind enough to move what little belongings they'd left in their previous hotel room into this one, likely having been informed of their propensity to arrive deep in the cloak of night and predicting they would not be keen on forcing him out of bed and back into his original room. They winced at each scrape of the sliding wooden drawers before they finally found their nightdress and towels in the third one down, and placed it atop the dresser. 

They wondered if it was worth it to even bathe, when their entire being hurt from three days on horseback. They promised themself sleep would be that much sweeter if they were clean, and they would sleep as late as they desired tomorrow. They dropped their hat on top of the bedpost, removed their belts and coiled them up to rest on the furniture top-- only to drop their gun belt a bit too far to the right, and hear it clatter, _ loudly, _to the floor. 

They swore. 

A sharp gasp of breath and stirring sheets behind them told them they'd failed in their only goal for the night. They sighed, put their hands up and turned to face him. 

"Boss?" 

"Mornin', Washington. It's me."

They heard him breathe, heavy and deep, trying to wake up properly before he spoke. He stretched out his arms, carefully leaning onto his back. "You're back," he said. 

"Mm. Sorry I woke you. Fuckin' dark in here." 

He fumbled around on the nightstand, groping for something they couldn't see, until he chucked a box of matches at them and mumbled, "Light the lantern over there. I don't mind." 

They nodded and did so, the stuffy, dark room gently flooded with the golden light of a lantern. It cast long, deep shadows across the walls, but it was good enough for them. 

Pierce spoke up once again. "Where did you go? It's been more than a week." 

"San Caterina," they repeated. "To see an old friend." 

There was a pause, a hesitation in his words. "The one who wrote the letters." 

They were not facing him; they stood at the dresser undoing the buttons on their dress shirt. They were tired and caked in dust and reeked of horse. "Yeah," they sighed, "I told you that, didn't I?" 

The bed creaked as Pierce sat up, pressing his weight into the palms of his hands. "You did." He watched them in the flicker of the light as they pulled off their shirt and tossed it to the ground-- with their hair braided and wrapped around their head in a halo, he could see the entirety of their back down to the rise of their jeans. 

The burn scars splayed across their skin like they'd been swiped by a massive lash, from the top of their right shoulder down to their left hip; the scarring was ragged, and uneven, something he noted as a hint that whatever had hurt them had hit at a very awkward, and perhaps fortunate, angle. The scars spotted down the backs of their arms and splashed up their neck, in minute amounts that were easy to miss. He knew it was rude to watch someone undress, but he was tired and curious, and as they discarded their jeans and unders, he found himself noting the matching lashes of charred skin that slipped down the backs of their left thigh and wrapped around their calf. 

He'd seen them undressed before-- it was a fact of living in such communal quarters with someone for so long; he'd seen the others just as often, and they'd seen him-- but he realized now that their hair was so long and thick that they'd been using it rather like a cloak. Unstyled, it rested at their hips, and it was most common to see them pulling locks of it forward to blanket their right shoulder, so they were modest of their scars even in the nude. The miscellaneous slices and slashes down their arms and sides were familiar, unhidden, commonly shown to the point of disregard, which implied to him there was something _ special _about the burn scars. They were fresh enough to glisten with a waxy texture in the light, but old enough that the color had faded from violent red into something more akin to their tawny brown skin, and he wondered how long they'd been hiding them. 

This entire time they'd been silent, and Pierce's search for information took the better of him, even as he wondered if the only reason he saw these burns _ now _ was because they were too exhausted to remember to unpin their braids for cover. 

"This friend," he spoke, drawing their attention, speaking only off a hunch, "does he...have anything to do with those scars?" 

The Boss turned to face him, expression twisted as if legitimately surprised he would ask such a thing. 

"_ Maybe _," they replied. "You know, it's rude to ask a lady about her scars, Washington." 

He snorted at them, though he was not frustrated. "Then you don't have to tell me about the scars-- just the friend, huh?" 

They didn't answer right away, opting instead to return to the dresser and remove their glass eye as they thought. "I'll make you a deal," they relented after a moment's consideration, clicking the eye case shut, "I'm gonna go bathe. If you're still awake when I come back, I'll tell you anything you wanna know." 

Pierce parted his lips to argue, but fell silent as they met his eyes. Instead, he just frowned, lips a tight seal as he realized four months of companionship hadn't done much to open them up-- even this game was more than most could hope for from such a cagey human being. 

"Fine," he sighed, leaning back into his pillow. "I'll take what I can get." 

They laughed a bit, without much vigor, and returned to the dresser to extract a cheap, thin bathrobe. They wrapped themself tightly in it, and tossed the towel over their shoulder. They walked to the edge of the bed and stared at him, as if considering something. 

"Why," they finally began, "do you wanna know so bad, huh? I heard you got shot a few days ago. Why don't we talk about that?" 

He turned his face to meet their stare. "I _ know _ why I got shot. Some asshole named Jedediah thought he could get away with it-- there's the story. You, meanwhile-- I don't know shit about you," he said. "You got a lot of stories to tell, don't you?" 

They laughed. "If you like tragedies, sure." They turned to the door, but he reached for their attention once again. 

"Do you not like to talk about it?" 

The Boss hesitated, staring blankly at the wall across from them as if the wood grain would rearrange itself into answers. "It's not that," they finally said. "I'm not ashamed of myself. Not anymore. I just… don't much like to remember." 

He sat up once again, watching the light dance back and forth across the profile of their face; the fire in the lantern flickered with as much uncertainty as their uneasy voice projected. He wondered how much they thought, but didn't say. 

"That sounds like shame to me," he insisted. "Or...pain." 

They faced him and put on a loose smile, one that quickly fell away as they began again for the exit. "You'll have to stay awake to find out, won't you?" 

He watched them leave with nary a word. He was thankful they didn't turn out the lantern, and committed himself to staying awake; but even then, the night weighed heavy on his eyelids. 

Pierce genuinely hadn't realized he'd dozed off until he was startled awake by warm hands pressing flush against his cheeks and jaw; all he could perceive with bleary sight was the half-illuminated face of a concerned Boss, peering down at him with water still slipping down their brow and damp hair clinging to their cheeks. 

"You're sweating, but it's freezing in here," they whispered. "Are you-- your leg, is it alright?" 

He took a second just to breathe, trying to meet their stare. "...Maybe," he managed, not particularly eager to speak anymore. "I'm just tired." 

They wiped the sweat from his brow with a turn of their thumb, their own face scrunched and contorted as they thought. "Can I check?"

He let his eyes fall shut and gave a half-assed shrug of the shoulders. "Sure."

Pierce didn't much react as they pulled the blankets aside, those same warm hands carefully ghosting over the tender, raw flesh of his aching thigh. Calloused fingers pressed into the swollen skin, just enough to see how he winced. Even with the minor reaction he gave, he failed to bother to open his eyes much, and instead tracked them by sound and touch. Their hands disappeared, but their heavy footsteps creaked across the wooden floor; he heard the pop of a lid unscrewed, and then the sudden sting of an alcohol-soaked rag pressed to his stitches. 

His shoulders jerked upwards, involuntarily, and a low hiss passed his teeth as if to relieve the pain. 

"_ Shhhh _," they whispered, lips pursed and teeth together. They were focused on the wound, watching the alcohol bubble and fizz. "If it hurts, that means it's working." 

He relented to conciousness, opening his eyes to watch them tend. They were only half-lit by the lantern, but with their many scars, their hair loose and tangled in its own dampness, and only their white nightdress on, they looked like a ghost to him. 

"I want my question," he mumbled. "If you're gonna torture me all night, I want my question." 

They snorted, not looking up at him. "One question. No more," they said, "in exchange for letting me torture you." 

He paused, thinking about it very carefully. For a second, they sat in silence, before he asked, "What's something I don't know about you?" 

They blinked. "What?" 

"Anything. Just, gimme _ something _here, a distraction, so I don't feel so goddamn in the dark. I'll figure out the rest later." 

They laughed, just a bit, and lifted his thigh to rinse the exit wound over. "Well, I love plums-- and chocolates and little sweets--" 

"_ Boss, _you know what I meant." 

They laughed again, louder, before wrapping the cloth around his thigh and watching his face as opposed to his leg. "Something you don't know," they repeated, humming a bit. 

He waited. 

"A bit after I joined the Saints, maybe three or four months in, I decided I needed-- _wanted--_ to get sober, so I went cold turkey abstinent for the year. No sex, no drugs, no alcohol. I needed to be with myself. Everyone thought I was a li'l nutty-- not like I talked to anyone anyway, so I would just sit in the corner at parties and stare-- I was a bit of a stranger. And sometimes I screwed up again, and they thought I acted even stranger-- No one really understood me, but they weren't cruel about it. _That's just Xavier_, that's what they always said.And I, well, I _wanted _to survive again, and I couldn't figure any other way to do it. So I just...stopped. It was the strangest feeling in the world." They shook their head, and rewet the cloth on his leg. "Painful thing to try. But I was so excited-- the saints really made me believe, trust that I had a life to live. It... gave me some hope, being with all those people who saw me as a _person, _wanted me to succeed. Hope turns into strength. Strength teaches you to love yourself. That's what I think." They snorted and shook their head, and added, "It's hard to put into words. I sound like a preacher." 

He widened his eyes, watching their face as they spoke. They looked so neutral, but spoke with such a vulnerable twinge. 

"Damn," was all he managed, voice low. "Fought that fight for a year?" 

"Probably more. After the explosion, there were issues, and-- _ well, _that's another question." 

"About the burns." 

"Yeah," they whispered. "I swear I'll tell you about them one day." 

"Why not now?" 

They parted their lips, thought, and then shook their head. "Because it's hard, Washington. I can barely talk about 'em with the people who already know the story, when I don't have to fill in the blanks or admit what happened out loud-- trying to explain it all from scratch feels like it'll kill me. You know the basics already: Johnny and me were betrayed, and these _things_, they don't ever leave you." 

Pierce leaned up, watching as they stood to extinguish the lantern for the night. As they suddenly were cloaked in near complete darkness, he slid back down into the mattress. "Julius," he thought aloud, "Pastor Little pulled that shit? After all you did?" 

He felt the bed shift under their weight as they crawled up next to him and slid under the covers. He took the alcoholic rag from his thigh and chucked it away, covering himself with the blankets again and relaxing into the bed properly. 

They settled down next to him, scooted closer and rested their head on his shoulder. "Mmhm," they affirmed. "A story for another time." 

He turned to look at them, found it too dark and his eyes too unadjusted, and so settled for resting his cheek on the crown of their head. He was used to sleeping with a no-man's land present between himself and whichever gang member he was stuck sharing a bed with-- even when it got particularly cold at night, there wasn't much interest between them to huddle up-- but he didn't mind, and the Boss, it seemed to him, had very little concept of personal space once around people they liked. He was already used to them hanging off of his side or leaning their weight against him, as if they hated to be devoid of touch, as if they resented to be disconnected, and so he never minded when they fell to his side; though, more than that, he just kind of _ liked _ having someone so close at night. Their heat and weight was comforting against desert cold and isolation. Their hair smelled pretty nice, too. 

"What made you decide to share that instead, huh?" He asked, slipping one arm under their side and up to rest his hand on their head. His thigh still stung, but it hurt less when he didn't have to think about it. "It still seems pretty heavy to me." 

They adjusted their weight against him and shrugged. "It's not heavy. I'm proud of it. But I don't get to talk about it a lot. It's...shameful, to have ever had a problem in the first place-- or so it's taught to be." They paused, yawned, and rubbed their hand against their face. "I felt like I could tell you, and be proud about it. You're curious, sure, but you ain't as judgey as you seem." 

He snorted. "That's not a compliment." 

"I know." 

He shook his head and sighed. He felt their eyes close against his shoulder, but they raised their hand and pressed the back of it flush against his forehead. As if content with the answer that gave them, they pulled away, and mumbled, "You'll be alright, Washington." 

"Thanks for torturing me, Boss." 

"Mm." 

They were already falling asleep. He propped himself carefully so his damaged thigh could breathe, and they rested on his good side. He dropped his hand to rest on their waist and hold them, if only so they couldn't crush him entirely. He was awake now, but it was a heavy kind of awake that couldn't be bothered to stir. He closed his eyes, and hoped the Boss didn't intended on waking early. 

They didn't. 

Pierce was out of bed, bathed and dressed, and out with the others by nine in the morning-- sure, nine was still pretty early, but in work like theirs it was rather decadent, and he gave himself the benefit of being injured enough to enjoy a late morning. The Boss's exhaustion, meanwhile, had caught up with them, and they weren't opening their eyes until well after noon. 

Unfortunately for them, their eyes were opened by Johnny slapping them on the head with a rolled up towel. 

If Johnny hitting them with stuff wasn't a common part of their lifestyle, they might've been offended. 

"An old friend in San Caterina, huh? You son of a bitch." 

_ Oh dear god. _

The Boss groaned, heaved their body upwards from the mattress like the weight of existence itself was sitting on top of them. 

"Johnny," they mumbled, "I swear, doll, I didn't cheat; you're my forever girl--" 

The towel slapped the top of their head again. "You're a rat fucking bastard, you know that?" 

Instead of continuing to lift themself up, they flopped over and fell onto their back, arms spread and eyes bleary. "Suppose I wasn't vague enough, huh?" 

"You think I'm fucking stupid?" 

"_ No, _that's why I was trying to be vague." 

"So you're a goddamn liar?" 

They sighed and pressed their head back into the pillows. "Johnny, I've got a headache and morning wood stiff enough to beat a moose to death with. Can this wait until I'm human again?" 

Johnny threw the towel over their face, hiding them from view. "You're a real bitch, you know that? You fuckin' hid this from me, and now you wanna put it off." 

They frowned. God, did they hate it when he had a good point. They pulled the towel from their face and sat up. 

"You're right," they admitted. "Fine, _ fine, _you're right." 

He took a deep breath, before he carefully lowered himself to sit on the edge of the bed. His center ached and resisted every movement, but he wasn't one to cave. "How the fuck you justify just runnin' off like that? To see someone who coulda tossed your ass in prison, us not knowing where the hell to break you out of." 

Hsin-hung rolled over to meet his side, watching his profile with a knit brow and a tight frown. They sighed, and sat back against the headboard. Their hair was tangled and messy from sleep, and it snagged on the wood, but they ignored it. "I wasn't in any danger," they sighed. "I wasn't. I know I wasn't. I trust him, Johnny." 

He shook his head. Even with pomade in his hair, a few strands came loose and fell in his face. He huffed and blew them away. "I don't know how you can." 

"You know he saved my life. And it wasn't like it was _ easy. _ I was such-- I was in ruins, Johnny. Begging to die, could barely move. But he kept me alive anyway, and what expense to himself, _ fuck, _ I can only imagine--" they paused, sighed, and let their head fall forward. "I can't ignore that. I can't _ repay _ that, especially if I won't _ trust _ him. Why would he go through that just to jail me?" 

"You tell me," he nearly spat. They heard Johnny tapping anxiously on the wood of the bed frame, like he was mulling over their claim. "Hsin," he finally said, voice suddenly dropped low and quiet, like he was tired, "I know he helped you. But that doesn't change what happened." 

With a careful hand, they reached out to grip his shoulder, a familiar motion. In the old days, when they found it hard to speak, it had been their affirmation to him-- just a simple touch, an acknowledgment that he was heard. Now, it was just a signal that they were _ there. _

"I'm not saying he didn't betray us. I'm not saying he didn't lie, or had nothing to do with you going to prison, or that he's in any way _ innocent, _okay? But, I am saying-- I'm saying he was our friend, and he still can be." 

"So why didn't you tell me, huh? Why didn't you ask me about it? We coulda gone out there together, talked to him together, or, hell, you coulda just _ told _me." 

Their whole body tensed, a sharp wave of guilt stabbing at their innards at the tone of his voice. Suddenly they wondered if they'd been very wrong in their decisions, very selfish.

"I knew you wouldn't like it," they admitted, even as the words stung their pride, "so I went to see for myself. I thought, it would be easier this way-- if he said no, I didn't waste your time. If he said yes, we could talk about it-- well, _ now _, I guess. Just the two of us. Or three. I meant to have Aisha around when I told you." 

He scoffed, almost a laugh, which gave them a bit of hope for this conversation yet. "Pussy." 

"I call it protection from getting skinned and worn as your coat, thanks-- Aisha is the only stable person here. And I like to think she likes me." 

"Probably. But this ain't her fight, anyway." 

"Well, we could always wait till Troy is around to fight." 

That _ almost-laugh _ broke the tension again, just a bit, and they scooted closer to him and fell onto their side so he could see their face. "If it came down to it, you know I'd take your word first. But this _ isn't _coming down to it." 

"It's not, huh? We're just headed back into the city, waltzing into a camp where he'll _ know _we'll be, and sitting around trusting he won't come and arrest our asses? You remember what happened the last time I got arrested? You had to bust my ass right from the gallows." 

They twitched. A tight frown drew on their face, accompanied by a nod. "I know," they said. "I remember. But-- I was alone in San Caterina for two days. He knew my damn hotel; he knew I was alone. I'm still here, ain't I?" 

"Yeah, but he always liked you." 

"Listen, I may be bad at understanding people, but I _ thought _ he liked you, too. Once. At least a little bit." They pushed themself closer, snaking around a bit so they were almost in his lap. "Even if he never liked you, you're both professionals, yeah? Then it's just a job." 

He stared down at them with not quite a glare, before quirking his brow at the bizarre way they'd craned their neck to see him. "You're a fucking loon." 

They smiled. "But you trust me, don't you?" 

He dropped his hand down on the side of their head and roughly pushed their face around. "Stop tryna be cute." 

They shoved his hand away and snorted. "I'm not trying." He shot them a sidelong glance, and they relented. "I knew you'd like the work, just not the person hiring. I figured you'd take it easier on this end." 

"Well, hey, that's what every guy says. Then they stick it in your ass, and it's _ not _easier." 

"Johnny, I promise I'd never stick it in your ass without a good load of oil first." 

"_ Thanks _. Can't wait." 

They continued on their point. "Can you tell me now whether or not I've fucked this whole thing over? Give this a chance to work or throw me away right now." 

"I don't want to." 

"Then we try it. Promise you just won't do what you did last time? I'm not breaking you out of the gallows again." 

"Hey, if you do gotta, don't take your sweet-ass time this lap around, okay? I spent a little over two years in prison before you got up to help." 

"I was _ bedridden, _Johnny."

"I know. That ain't an excuse." 

They snorted. They spun one hand around in the air, gesturing something Johnny already didn't like. "You know, ain't it technically Troy's fault your execution kept getting put off…? And so you stayed in jail… just long enough for me to come break you out?" 

Johnny blinked. _ "No," _he said. "That's-- That's bullshit-- You're just throwing out guesses; I can see it in your shit-stained grin. Don't even try that." 

They smiled at him. "Aren't I right?" 

"Let's go back to the sex jokes, huh?" 

"Oh, but _ this _? Doesn't it fuck you so much harder?" 

_ "Stop it." _

"Nah, Johnny, what're you gonna do about it?" 

"Fuck you." 

"You mean that? You're gonna fuck me?" They blew him a kiss and winked. "I love a good hate-fuck." 

For a man with stitches in his stomach, he managed a decently heavy shove to their shoulder, nearly knocking them back into the headboard, but they only laughed and slunk deeper into the sheets. For a moment they paused, peering up at him with a curious eye, before they regained an even tone and spoke earnestly with him once again. "Johnny, I won't slight you for being angry with me. I think on it now and realize I'd be angry, too. But I'm asking you to trust me." 

"I _ always _trust you, and look where that's got me now." 

"A gun watching your back in every shoot out? A friend that's, quite literally, picked you up and carried you through Illinois into Missouri? A fake cousin to bail you out of jail, a fake wife to cover your story through every goddamn town this way south of Michigan? I've come for you every time you've been kidnapped by another gang or arrested by a local police, and for fuck's sake I don't hold that against you, but I'd hope it would mean something when I ask you to trust me like I trust you. You know how the betrayals in Stilwater hurt us, and I won't put a gun to your head to make you forgive anyone who's damned you, but you have to admit that if Troy were as disloyal as you think, I wouldn't be sitting here asking you to trust him again." 

Johnny's lips parted around the beginning of a word, eyes set straight ahead before he swallowed roughly and his lips shut into a tight line. "You don't know that," he mumbled.

"_ Yes _, Johnny, I do. I would've bled out, given out under the pain, or taken my own life if someone hadn't been there to drag me out and push me through." 

"You _ can't _be so damn sure--" 

"Yes I can! I know it ain't pretty, Johnny, but it's true! We can hate to admit it all we like, but I shoulda died, and we both know it! If there's nothing else in the world I can show you, the fucking scars on my back should be enough to prove there's a _chance_ that he's still blooded to us. And that's all I'm asking of you, baby; I'm asking a _chance_." 

He hesitated, lingered in the still air, before he nodded his head slow and heavy. "One more chance than I'd like to give." 

They leaned in to meet his eyes and held him with a firm expression. "I know," they said. "If I'm wrong, if he tries to turn his back on us, I'll take my gun and I'll kill him myself. Leave everything from Stilwater behind, and we'll never look back again. One more chance for the old days, and if it's a mistake, we don't needa try again." 

He watched their eye, read their stare as they stayed set on him, not a waver in their glance or hesitation in their voice. 

"Do you hear me?" they asked. 

“Yeah, _ yeah _, I hear you."

They swung their arm up and held his shoulder, lifting themself on their other arm to lean carefully and hold their weight without hurting him. “I’m not tryna drive any rifts between us. If this is really, _ really _ too much to ask of you-- we can still turn back. We’ll find another way to run bounties. But I am telling you, right now, the fucking Lord as my witness-- it's a safe call. It is. And if it isn't? I'll carry that weight."

“...Fine. I trust you. Run it. We’ll go to Troy, but I’m keeping my gun on my hip.” 

They scoffed, and the weight in their shoulders collapsed to an easier pose. “Because fighting him worked _ so well _last time.” 

“_ Shut up. _You’re wearing me thin, you know that?” 

“I know, but what’s a little knife fight between friends?” They leaned away from him, lacking even the energy to put on a smile. “I’m not toying when I say you’re always my first choice. You know that.” 

He was quiet for a moment, but he nodded carefully nonetheless. “I know.” 

“Look on the bright side for me, huh? Once we’re in a real camp again, you won’t have to keep straining. You can finally relax and heal up.” 

“You’ve thought about this argument from all sides, haven’t you?” 

“Anything for you, Johnny.” 

He rolled his eyes, but he didn't draw away nor did he push them off his side; in fact, he relaxed into their presence and let his head fall forwards, as if he was tired. "I don't like having someone around I can't fully trust." 

They blinked, shifted, and adjusted so they might support his weight. "Talk to me. You know I'll listen." 

"We haven't talked enough?" 

"I don't know if I'd call it talking. We've mostly been, y'know, arguing, hiding behind crude jokes, making each other distracted, and the like. Like we usually do. I’m saying, y’know, _ actually _talk to me.” 

His brow raised a bit, but his eyes lingered out the window and on the dusty building beyond it. “If that’s not talking, then we’ve barely ever talked, huh?” 

“Neither of us have ever been really good at it, no. But I’ve been thinking lately.” 

“That must’ve hurt.” 

“_ Prick. _ I’ve been thinking that if we’re ever gonna get out of this, ever gonna be able to _ live _, we have to be able to… to talk about stuff.” 

Johnny watched them for a moment. “You sound like Eesh.” 

“When has she ever been wrong?” 

“Good point." 

"So talk to me, _ please. _" 

They heard him exhale heavy through his nose. There was a long pause, only the distant clop of horses and the rumble of wagons between them, before Johnny relented and spoke honestly. 

"Don't ever go behind my back again," he said, voice practically a mumble. "If you...trust me. Shit, we shouldn't have to play games like that. Not us." 

Their heart twinged; they rose off his shoulder and sat properly in the bed beside him. With a rough sigh of dry air, they nodded. "I didn't mean it like that, Johnny, but I understand. I only wanted to make this as smooth-running as possible. Next time-- If there's ever a next time, I'll tell you." 

"Fuck, I hope there's never a next time." 

"Who's left? Julius, Dex? I think I'd be dead if I tried it." 

“From them? Or from me?” 

They snorted, a grin cracking their face open despite it all. “Both,” they admitted. "You'd bring me back just to kill me again." 

"I _ would _," He nodded. "You don't have any debt to those two, right?" 

"Nah. Not anymore. What about you?" 

"Fuck no. Everything from here on out is just us." 

They reached out, let their hand hang open in the air, and Johnny clasped it tight. They squeezed his hand, and he squeezed theirs back. 

"Blood in, baby." 

"Blood out," he returned. "Fuck it. Let's do it." 

They grinned so wide, the relief etching out the dimples in their cheeks, he thought that their face might crack in two. 

All there was to do now was wait and see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fuckin hate editing on my phone but I dont have my laptop so if this is....messier than usual mad apologies. tiny screen big hands hurt clown brain. 
> 
> that being said, we're finally to the point I can actually dive into plot instead of peddling out lots of build up and that only took me....... 7 chapters and 6 1/2 interludes. woawh. love that journey for me.  
This chapter will have an interlude I'm just going to post it a wee bit later.  
if yr reading this I hope u have a wonderful day! <3


	14. Interlude 6

_ Stilwater, Michigan, 1899 _

The gallows in Stilwater didn't even have the decency to be clean. The wood of the stand was warped from constant rain, and standing on the stairs stunk of mildew. It was treated just like the rest of Stilwater-- apathetically. 

The nicer touch was that, unlike most towns, the gallows weren't in a town center. They weren't placed somewhere a crowd was likely to gather, and there was a shred of humanity in that. When there had been mass hangings of the saints, they had gathered anyway, but that had been years ago, and now nobody much cared. The gallows were a long walk away, and they stared out over the lake, and as ugly as that fucking thing was, it was...comforting. 

Johnny swore to himself he was someone who didn't need comfort. He was too calloused for that, too fire-forged to need the waves. He didn't need it. 

...But maybe he wanted it. 

There were people he didn't recognize standing before the gallows, idle and unfazed. They were civilians, self-righteous homesteaders who genuinely believed this hanging was another piece of Stilwater getting _ "cleaned up," _swept away like dirt into the trash bin; they were people who looked at Johnny and believed he deserved every second of this. 

Maybe he did. Maybe everything he'd ever done had lead up to this moment, every turn he'd ever taken had steered him directly into the embrace of a noose-- but he didn't have to accept that. 

_ "Two, Timothy, 2:13-- If we are unfaithful, he remains faithful, for he cannot deny who he is." _

Julius's voice rung around in the back of his head, like a pest demanding presence. It made him angry. Where was that old man now? Where was he, with Lin dead, Dex with Ultor, Troy with the law, and his best friend missing in action? What could he possibly fucking preach now? Where was he when the Saints fell? He left Johnny standing alone. 

Johnny wasn't loyal to Julius anymore. He was loyal to himself, loyal to his beliefs, but most importantly, he was loyal to the Saints-- whatever that meant now. 

Past the bastards in attendance was the gentle lap of the lake tide against sparse, muddy grass. It was quiet, and easy, like everything in the world was the way it was supposed to be, like he wasn't drowning in the chaos of a life turned upside down. 

Drowning was a good metaphor for this: it was so quiet and numbing. He could scream if he wanted to, but what was the point? 

_ Fuck _ , he was just angry. He was so _ goddamn angry. _

He'd asked Aisha not to come see him. He resented the bastards in the crowd watching him, resented the fact that they would watch him die with smug looks on their faces but didn't even have the decency to try to kill him themselves. Maybe it would've been a bit more bearable of a wait if Aisha had been there, been around to watch him with her pretty eyes, but that felt selfish to ask of someone. 

He wasn't scared to die, really. It wasn't something he thought about much. Whether or not there was something on the other side, waiting for him, didn't matter much to him. He wasn't scared to be dead. What he hated, what he resented more than anything, was sitting here waiting for some asshole with a salary to grab him by the arm and drag him up to the stand, having to wait patiently for the corporate death of a sentenced man, just one in a string of other damned men. 

He should've died for the Saints. He shoulda died by a chance bullet and a lucky hit. That would've been fine. 

He sighed just as the platform collapsed and another neck snapped. The world was fucked. He missed his friends. 

The fucker behind him leaned forward. 

"What're you up for?" he whispered. 

Johnny shot him a disdainful, sidelong glance. "Murder." 

"300 some counts of it," the guard beneath the staircase grunted. "You damn gun shark." 

Johnny squinted at him. "Given the statute of limitations, it really should be closer to 250-- I'm just sayin'." 

"Did that work with the judge?" 

"Considerin' where I'm standing, what do you think?" 

The guard fucking _ guffawed _, and Johnny considered kicking him in the back of the head, but he didn't think the chains on his ankles were long enough for it. 

The prisoner behind him drew back, eyes wide. "Damn," he said, "I just robbed some rich folk." 

"And we ended up at the same place, didn't we?" 

"Yeah, shut up," the guard huffed, apparently done with his laugh. "You're all the same." 

Johnny jerked his leg to test how far he could swing against the chain. Not far, but, that was fine. He hopped his left foot over, pulled his right foot back, and slammed his boot into the back of the guard's head. 

The young man behind him, merely a robber, stifled a sharp laugh, but Johnny snorted openly as the guard stumbled away, clutching his stupid bald head. Some of the onlookers gasped, but the executioner wasn't even distracted. Another body fell. 

"You son of a bitch! You're gonna pay for that!" 

"Oh, _ what _? You gonna hang me?" Johnny snorted and watched him rather vaguely, with slack shoulders and an almost bored frown. He spoke with a low, cynical bitterness in his voice that betrayed the twinges of rage cracking underneath the surface. He was too tired to get angry, but too tired to suppress it, either. 

The guard drew his club, looking like a mad bull with intent to gore. Johnny already decided what he would do-- he would wrap the chains on his wrists around that man's neck and strangle him until someone else intervened. It would be a good last hurrah. 

He did not, however, get the chance. 

The paltry crowd scattered and ran at the _ bang _ of an unseen gun, and the consecutive _ splattering _of the guard's head gunk against the platform. Johnny's eyebrows shot upwards, but he didn't flinch; the young man behind him had ducked down, and was retching at the sight and scent of death. 

"Hey, kid, you're okay," Johnny said, leaning over the railway to peer at the corpse. "Just, uh, don't look down, huh?" 

The young man sounded like he was going to vomit. "Yeah," he blanched, "no problem." 

Johnny turned his head to follow the bullet, and what shocked him more than his impending death, or the sudden gunshot, or the guard's blood on his shoes, was the figure on the other side of the gun. 

"No shit," he mumbled. "Hey, _ hey _! It's about time your burnt ass woke up!" 

There stood his long lost friend, bandages woven around their neck and arms, a patch over their eye, and an old shotgun in their hands.

"Hey, Johnny," they said. Their voice was rough, low and gravely. It surprised him when he heard it, and for a second he didn't know how to respond. 

So not only were the rumors true, and they were _ alive _ , but they _ talked _now. 

He leaned his weight against the rails of the staircase, a grin almost slipping across his face. "Hey, you look different. You do something with your hair?" 

They idly picked up a wavy lock of hair that had fallen from their braid and shrugged. "It got longer." 

He snorted. "Yeah, no shit, man." 

They grinned at him, carefully slung their shotgun over their back and instead drew a pistol from their hip, aiming at the executioner who still held the gallows lever. "Fuck off," they called, gesturing for him to run with a wave of their gun. 

He did not move, as if still frozen by bewilderment. They fired at his feet-- he jumped, and finally fled. 

Johnny laughed, a strange elation blossoming in his chest. 

In a moment, they'd swiped the ring of keys from the dead guard's belt and were at the steps, clicking Johnny free from chains. He rubbed at his wrists as the cuffs fell away, the skin sore and raw from the constant rub. 

"Hey," he said, "mind unchaining my friend here?" He gestured to the young man still crouched behind the thin rail, as Hsin-hung squatted to unchain Johnny's ankles. 

"Sure thing," they said. "What'd he do?" 

The young man poked his out. "Just robbed some folk." 

"_ Rich _folk. So no one with, y'know, a soul or anything." 

Hsin-hung laughed, picked up Johnny's chains and flung them across the way. "I'm glad to see you haven't changed." They turned to the other man, gestured him forward, and began to undo his shackles. "You're gonna wanna run," they said, "get the hell out of here, as far as you can." 

The young man nodded, his hands still shaking, but stuttered out his thank yous and bolted as soon as his ankles were free. The two of them watched him go. 

"Godspeed, motherfucker," Hsin-hung mumbled. 

Johnny made a small noise of acknowledgment, descended the stairs and met their hand as they offered it to him. He thought it was a handshake, the same ridiculous gestures they'd always made, but as his hand met theirs they gripped it tight, grabbed him and pulled him into their chest. 

_ "Mmph?" _ he said, as his face pressed into their collar. They'd dropped a significant amount of weight-- so much of the fat and muscle they'd gained during their sobriety eaten away as their body had struggled to survive; much like when he'd first met them, their collar bones protruded from their skin and jabbed him in the face when he got too close. He adjusted and turned his head up, resting his chin on their shoulder. 

"It's been a while," they breathed. Their arms wove around his shoulders, and he wondered if this was the first time they'd hugged. He was pretty sure it was. "Troy told me that-- that the Saints were gone, and I-- _ fuck _, Johnny, I thought I was gonna be too late--" 

Johnny pushed them back. "Troy?" He parroted back at them. _ "Troy? _You're with fuckin' Bradshaw?" 

"_ Wh-- _" A confused stare scanned Johnny's face, taking in the hurt etched into each tired line, the disbelief in his dark eyes, and the scowl not quite ready to draw at his lips. They didn't understand. "Of… Of course…" they mumbled, losing their words with each passing second that the fear growing in their stomach mounted. "Why-- Why wouldn't I...be?" 

Johnny met their eyes. His grip on their shoulders released before it tightened. "Xav," he said, "where the _ fuck _you been?" 

Their lips moved soundlessly, trying to piece together every meager scrap of knowledge they had. "No," they whispered. "You're-- _ No, _ it can't-- it can't _ just _be us." 

Johnny swallowed. 

"You're playing me, Johnny. We can't've… not _ everybody." _

"Hey," he said, low and heavy, "We needa get outta town, you hear me?" 

They raised their head in a meager nod. Their eyes closed, and they spoke quietly, "It's just one fucking thing after another, isn't it?" 

That was the motto of their lives. 


End file.
